Blue on Black
by HardlyFatal
Summary: BtVSLotR xover. 3rd in arc after The Gift of Death & Without. A champion is sent to Middle-Earth, with a chip on her shoulder & skeletons in her closet. Can Faith adapt to this new life, resolve her differences with Buffy, and-- oh yeah-- save the world?
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This fic is the third in the series of Beyond the Shadow and the Soul. Part 1 was The Gift of Death; part 2 was Without. It picks up about two years after the end of  Without. The name comes from the bleak lyrics in the song of the same name by The Kenny Wayne Shepherd Band.

Deepest thanks to all those who've stuck with me throughout this series so far; I sincerely hope you enjoy the ride. It's going to be a lengthy one.

If you want to know more about Tolkien's concept of death and the soul, please visit http://www.tolkienonline.de/etep/E/elven_phil-death.html. 

Blue on Black, Chapter One

By CinnamonGrrl

Most people don't realize the huge dichotomy that is both life and death. We have far more control over the manner of both entrance and exit from this world than we realize; the gods have all the major details planned out long before we're born, but little things—like, say, an odd and poignant sense of regret before death claims us—can propel us in a direction completely different from that which we might have gone if only we'd died quietly, with our sole last thought being, "Ow."

And so it came to be that the Powers That Be heard Faith's wordless surge of remorse in that heartbeat-span of time between when the demon grabbed rough fistfuls of her hair, and when its sudden wrench nearly twisted her head from her shoulders and she died. The Powers watched as her broken body spilled to the dirty, rain-wet pavement of the Philadelphia street, and thought of a bothersome issue in another dimension that just might benefit from this young woman's particular outlook on the world. 

This Slayer had not been anything special. Oh, she'd been the first redundant Slayer ever, certainly, but in terms of performance: dozens of her sisters had gone "bad" before, and as beings of intrinsic good rather than evil, all had seen the error of their ways and sought redemption. Her skills, her attitude: none of them had marked her as extraordinary. Not like her predecessor, Buffy Summers. Now, that one had been special…

But we digress. No, Faith was not an unusual Slayer. She was, however, an unusual person, and the Powers saw in her a singular opportunity to assist that little problem they were having in Middle-Earth. Blast these inter-pantheon alliances! Always more trouble than they were worth. Well, the Valar had asked for more assistance with their attempts to fend off the Netjeru. And this Slayer had died with a plea left unspoken: the opportunity to achieve what she had not had the time to accomplish in her short span of life. 

It would seem a marriage made in heaven, would it not? With an indolent wave of a metaphorical finger, the Power responsible for this sort of thing greatly confused the demon, who had begun to crow his triumph at conquering an almighty Slayer to the world, by first reattaching her head properly, and then making her body vanish into thin air. The Power was met—so to speak—at the border between their dimensions by one of the Valar: Námo was his name, but most called him Mandos.

"Another warrior, to aid in your battle," the Power said formally, exchanging ownership of the girl's body and soul to the other deity.

"We thank you for your kindness and generosity in our time of need," replied Mandos, just as formally. Then, "You still owe me twenty dollars."

"I told you, I'm good for it," replied the Power testily. Really, these Valar wouldn't cut a fellow a break. "How about double or nothing?"

"Have I not already won all of your money?" inquired Mandos gently. "'Twould ill befit me to beggar you of gold when 'tis already clear you have nothing of wit."

The Power scowled and flounced off as best as a noncorporeal being was able, leaving the Vala there with the girl's body cradled in His immense, glowing hands. Mandos sighed. Truly, He was tired of all this shuffling around between life and death. The past two decades had been quite vexing for Him, what with that Slayer seeming to die every ten minutes, and all the nonsense after the War of the Ring… and there did not look to be an end in sight. How He longed for the old days, when there was only that one elf, Glorfindel, who needed sending back, and just the once…

"Does no one remain dead any longer?" He asked plaintively, but He was alone in the ethers and shades between worlds, and was not heard. He sighed again, and returned with the girl to His home on Aman. This one would require some work before He could return her to the realm of the living. He only prayed that she would not prove more trouble than she was worth. "I have other things to do," Mandos muttered grouchily as He reappeared in His Halls and strode through the corridors, the girl's arms and legs dangling with the limpness only death can provide. 

Where to put her? Certainly not with the elves, as it was clear she was no elf, and what would they talk about? Not with the souls of Men, either, for they were only in His halls for a brief while before Ilúvatar'sprecious gift, that of roaming free instead of being bound to this world, was granted to them. In truth, Mandos was puzzled as to which path He should take and called, as all wise husbands do, for His wife to counsel Him.

Vairë came to Him at once, and heard his dilemma whilst He laid down His burden on an alabaster table. The girl's hair, dampened with sweat and blood, was a dark smudge against the pristine pallor of the stone, her smudged red lipstick a jarring clash in this grey and calm place, and even in death she seemed to exude passion and vitality. Mandos looked down at her, gaze intent, and then all colour seemed to bleach away as he severed her _fëa_ from her _hröa_. she faded into nothingness, leaving only the misty silver-toned whisper of her soul behind, the very image of her former body.

"Her fate is a unique one," Vairë said at last, for She knew what had been decided for this woman. She rubbed Her fingers, ink-stained from scribing the tales of Arda and Aman into legends, against Her filmy skirts. "Who shall decide when she will be placed once more in her body?"

"Manwë, of course," Mandos replied, and passed a hand over the girl's face. Faith blinked hazily, more out of habit than necessity, and moved to brush hair from her face as she sat up before realizing that there was no longer a need to worry about either hair or face. 

"Then you should put the decision to Him," Vairë said firmly, and gave the girl a thorough once-over. "Welcome, child," She said, not unkindly. 

They watched as she stared at Them in stupefaction. Even among elves, it was a rare and wondrous thing to be in the presence of even one Vala, to feel their immense power. But this was a human, and They were two, not one. Too late, They realized Their error as she fell back on the table, overwhelmed by their combined glory. 

Mandos turned to Vairë with a frown. "We must send for Nienna," He told Her after a last glance at Faith's shivering, terrified form. "She will know how to comfort this one."

Vairë nodded. "I will go." After She was gone, Mandos looked with pity at His new charge. "Such a destiny before you," He said with something akin to sadness. "I can only hope you are strong enough to fulfill it."

* * *

Faith felt the shadows swamp her, shockingly fast, and then there was a vague sort of coldness, as if she'd run outside in winter, barefoot, without a coat. Then the chill receded, and sensation prickled her skin as warmth returned. When she returned to herself again, she lay very still and quiet, not knowing what to do. She was weightless, weightless and yet complete, as if by losing something she had found everything. Everything she'd ever lost, ever missed, ever wanted. She had never felt that way before, and this time instead of struggling, relaxed into it. There was light here, and love, and comfort like she'd never thought could exist. She felt herself lowered against something soft and cool, and then all physical sensation ceased entirely, leaving only that flowing completion. 

Faith blinked and used her hand to push herself to a sitting position before realizing that she could see whether her eyes were open on not. Slowly, slowly, memories began to trickle back to her. She was aware that she was dead, and surprisingly, the knowledge didn't bother her too much. Slayers never lived long. This, then, was heaven_. "Not like I thought it would be," _she mused. Many times over the years she'd wondered about her sister Slayers. About her predecessor, Kendra. About Buffy. Where had they gone? What was death like for them? Would it be the same for her? She knew she'd made mistakes—bad ones—but Angel had been so sure that redemption was possible, that forgiveness could be granted to people like them. 

This wasn't like the other place. That had been so empty, so cloudy, filled with nothing but tall, glowy people who'd stared inside her very soul. She'd felt transparent as glass, as if every evil nasty thing she'd ever done had been pulled out, one by one, like one of those never-ending magician's scarves. If she'd still had pants, Faith was sure she'd have peed them. 

This place had nothing barren or cold about it. Rather, it was comfortable and even a little shabby: the sheets beneath her were worn from many washings, and the blanket above her looked as if it had gone through a few wars. A fire crackled merrily in the tiny hearth across from the bed, and a lone chair sat before it, as if awaiting the arrival of its usual occupant. The room was small and the outer wall was rounded, with a band of windows stretching from side to side. There was no door, and Faith did not feel trapped, but safe, as if she were being protected instead of incarcerated.

She pushed herself up and left the bed to approach the windows. Beyond the glass was a wide strip of beach, with foaming waves of clear green crashing upon the shore. Their rhythm was steady, like a heartbeat, and Faith found herself mesmerized by it. Gripping the windowsill, she watched as the tide came in, gradually inching up the sand until the water rushed almost to the base of the wall she stood behind. Slowly, Faith felt emotions begin to seep from behind the façade of numbness. Before she knew it, she was crying.

Faith wept a little for herself, but mostly for Angel, and prayed he'd found some measure of peace, some way to erase the shadows from him. She'd been with him when he'd died. The Polgara demon had skewered him, but not close enough to kill. She had finished off the last of the vamps and rushed down the murky alley toward him, but he'd looked at her, looked at her with those bottomless eyes of him, and shoved the splinter of bone the fraction to the right it needed to pierce his heart. Her scream of anguish had bounced off the clammy bricks that loomed around them even as his body had altered, crystallizing into a fine grey dust that could not retain its form. With the sound she herself had caused more times than she could count, the sickly yellow of the streetlights had caused what was left of Angel to sparkle and glimmer as it floated gently back to earth. Faith dispatched the Polgara without a second glance, then dropped to her knees beside the little heap of powder that had been her friend, her mentor. 

Her lover. 

He'd arranged for her release from prison, and she'd joined him in fighting to keep Los Angeles safe from the dark. She'd seen the despair grow in him, the longing for Buffy that nothing could ever diminish or replace. That nobody could ever replace… Faith had long wished it could have been her. In desperate loneliness, Angel had turned to her, and they had taken solace in each other's bodies. When her powerful limbs had wrapped around him, urging him to completion, she had known he was thinking of Buffy. And when he'd buried his face in Faith's hair, groaning Buffy's name, she had allowed herself to pretend for that moment that she **was** Buffy, that shining girl who had danced with the darkness and yet who had never been vanquished by it. 

"Yes," she'd murmured in Angel's ear. "I'm Buffy, and I love you."

Faith **had** loved him. He was her saviour, after all—had arranged for her release from prison, given her a home, a purpose. She'd fought by his side every night since he'd freed her, and the same passion that had gotten her into so much trouble before now served her in good stead: ardently devoted to Angel, she took his part in every argument without fail, much to the consternation of the others. 

Especially Wesley, who had tried to take up his role as Watcher to her. He was much changed from the Sir Geeks-a-lot he'd been in Sunnydale, however, and it wasn't as much of a chore to deal with him this time around. To her everlasting horror, one day he'd noted how mature she'd become, and how proud he was of how she'd buckled down to her responsibilities.

That night was the first time she'd gotten drunk with Spike. Always suspicious of him, chip or no, she'd never gotten to know him much. One thing was clear, however: if you wanted a companion for tying one on, he was your vamp. They exchanged war stories, compared scars, bragged about impressive kills, and by the end of the night (and the end of the whiskey) Faith didn't feel she knew him any better than she had before. It seemed that only Buffy's sister was allowed to learn anything more of him than the swaggering, chain-smoking smirk-on-legs demeanor he affected primarily in order to make Angel insane.

It had been Spike who'd suggested she seduce Angel. He'd just turned down her advances on **him**, after all, and filled with the sloppy _bonhomie_ that drinking neat gin always seemed to evoke in him. "Go on, then, pet," he'd said, shoving her none-too-gently out of his room at the Hyperion and in the direction of Angel's room. "Bet you twenny quid the Poof'll be right glad t'see ya." Then he'd given her a final flourish with the cigarette clamped between his nicotine-stained fingers, nearly setting her hair alight, and lurched back into his room. The door shut in her face with a certain awful finality, and Faith felt resolve fill her. 

"I can do this," she said to bolster herself, and lurched down the hallway, unaware of how garish she appeared under the fluorescent lighting. Mascara streaked, lipstick smeared halfway across her chin, hair matted, t-shirt sodden with spilt liquor, she thought herself irresistible. And indeed, in a state like that, to Angel she had been irresistible. He had not been able to turn her away in such a pathetic, needy state, and when she had pressed her mouth to his in a clumsy, rum-soaked kiss, he had tasted her fear, her loneliness, her desperation. He understood that she was shot full of holes, just as he was, and so he pulled her inside his room and made love to her. It pushed away the shadows for a while. The next day, things resumed as they had been before,  and after a few days when the shadows began to creep back and the loneliness was too much to bear, he came to her room. Sober this time, but no less devoted to Angel, Faith stepped back and let him in. 

Years passed, and they continued that way. Who knew why they used each other like that? Perhaps it was gratitude. Hadn't her gratitude toward Mayor Wilkins spurred her to excuse his various atrocities, even participate in them? Or perhaps it was her own baser needs. For an hour or two, she could pretend she was someone whole and clean, someone who could be loved, and it was enough. Far more than she deserved, at least. It was enough. 

_"No,"_ Faith thought, and gave a sharp bark of laughter. No more need to lie to herself, or turn it into something acceptable. They were both dead now, no one to hurt with the truth. They had used each other for sex because they **could**—and that was it. No deep meaning behind it, no sad story, no teary tale. They had needed the comfort and oblivion that only loveless sex could bring, and so they had indulged. But their moments of respite came with a heavy, dear cost: after a while Faith was aware of feeling tight, over-extended, like she'd been pulled too far and stretched too thin. Then came that night in the alley, and Angel had looked into her eyes, and she'd known he felt the same way. 

Angel was gone, and now, so was she. "Gone where?" she asked, hoping there was someone to hear her. "Where am I?" Somehow, she understood as clearly as if she'd learned it in school, long ago: she no longer had a body, really, nor would anyone else in this place. Her physical senses—sight, hearing, touch—all were gone. Or rather, unnecessary, because instead of sensing anything, everything she experienced… she just **knew**. 

There was a rustle of cloth behind her, and yet she knew it was a contrivance —that there was no cloth, really, and no actual body to make it move. Still, she had not lost the custom of looking with eyes instead of mind, and turned to face her new companion. Before her stood a tall woman of middling years, in a gown of grey. Hair the colour of dusk coursed over thin shoulders, and eyes as kind as summer gazed at Faith with the same piercing quality of the other two beings, but without the detachment. 

"I am Nienna," the woman said, though Her lips did not move, "and I will help you, if you let me." Nienna reached out Her hand, long fingers gleaming pale in the golden light streaming through the windows, and waited for Faith to respond.

_"What the hell,"_ Faith thought. Summoning up her cockiest grin, she placed her hand in Nienna's and lifted her chin. It wasn't like she had anything else to do.

_fëa_ = soul

_hröa_ = body


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: all foreign language in this chapter is Quenya, not Sindarin. 

Many thanks to wildecate for finding the mistakes that would have made me embarrassed had they not been caught ahead of time. Many thanks to Moralanqua for finding the mistakes that have made me embarrassed after the fact.

Blue on Black, Chapter 2

By CinnamonGrrl

Time passed; Faith was not sure how much. Time passed, and she became less dependant on her old corporeal form. The less she used her eyes to see, her hands to touch, her feet to walk, the less visible she became until one morning when she awoke and found there was only a faint, pearlescent sheen where she was used to seeing her ghostly body. By this point, there was no need to maintain the construct of a room, of a bed, of a wall with windows. Faith existed on that grassy shore, consciousness fading when she needed rest, and brightening when she was replete once again. 

Similarly, the less she needed to see Nienna as a being with form, the less that goddess would appear as one, and that same morning, She came to Faith in Her true guise: a mere wisp of silver light, flickering in the sunlight coursing down over them both. Nienna had identified Herself as one of the Valar, the gods of this place—Nienna called it Aman—and Her special area was grief and mourning. 

"I'm not in mourning," Faith had protested. "Your time here is wasted on me."

Shrouded in compassion and veiled in kindness, She had brushed aside Faith's protestations. "There are no barriers now, child. You can hide nothing from me. I know your heart."

But Faith had spent a lot of time protecting herself, and though the Vala persisted in trying to help, Faith would not accept comfort from Her. In defeat, Nienna had relinquished Her ward to gentle Estë, who lived in the gardens called Lórien. Outside of Nienna's halls, Faith once more had more of a body than the whisper of smoke she'd faded to, but it was very different from before: she could simply imagine herself somewhere—in the highest bows of a nearby tree, for example, or reclining, half-hidden by that tall grasses of a meadow, when she had just been atop a mountain where the snow was up to her waist—and there should be instantly be. 

Estë asked nothing that Faith would or could not give, and Faith began to relax to where she almost enjoyed passing time with the goddess, silent and peaceful as they sat together in the fragrant gardens, surrounded by flowers as fat bumblebees buzzed as they hovered and swooped from one bloom to another. 

"There is not much time left," Estë told her sadly one evening as they bathed in the light from the stars above. 

Faith could swear she could actually feel the caress of the silver glow upon her bare skin, that night—she had never been overly burdened with modesty, and there in Lórien was little need for it. Her nude limbs stretched out on the sun-warmed ground, she felt a pang of alarm at Estë's words. "Not much time left for what?" she asked, voice trembling a little.

Estë turned Her face from its perusal of Isil to look at Her charge. Faith's heart had indeed healed greatly since her death, but there were many wounds still left gaping and sore. Alas, that there was not enough time to tend them, but the other Valar had declared the need to send Faith to Arda was too pressing to wait much longer. Fourteen years, as Men and Elves counted them, had passed in this garden, and yet Faith would have sworn it but days since her arrival. "Soon," Estë said at last, "you will be sent on to your destiny."

"Yeah, about that," Faith replied, her tone a bit cranky as she sat up and swiveled to face the goddess. "What is this destiny I keep hearing about? Between you and Irmo, I keep getting little hints, but no concrete facts." 

A delicate line appeared between Estë's dark, winglike brows. Her husband, Irmo, frequented the gardens as well and had spoken to this girl's shade on numerous occasions. He was known as the tender of dreams, but nowhere was He known as the soul of discretion. She decided to have a word with Him in the near future about His habit of speaking so freely around those she strove to heal. Unlike in the halls of either Mandos or Nienna, beings in the gardens of Lórien held their own counsel and thoughts, and it was not wise to allow them to know the actions and motivations of the gods when it was unclear what they could do with that knowledge.

"It is not for me to reveal such to you," Estë said at last. "To learn more, you must speak with my lord Manwë, and He is not yet ready for you."

"Don't you mean, I'm not yet ready for him?" Faith asked with a saucy grin, and stood, brushing off her bare backside. "Doesn't really matter, I guess." She peered up at the sky, attention drawn by the brightness of a particular star, and found herself lost in its gentle pulse as awareness of the garden, of her companion, of her own physical self faded. She was drawn up, up and out into the depthless blue velvet of the sky, and reached out to grasp one of the now-close stars, but just as her hand would have closed around it, felt something on her arm.

Faith tumbled back to earth, back into her body, with a jarring thump. She had not been touched in a long, long time, and found herself reducing the sensation to its most basic impression (warmth, faint pressure) so her shocked mind could understand and process what was happening. It would seem that she had an actual body again, and that someone had touched it with their own. With their hand, to be exact. Faith looked quickly to see if a mark would be left by it.

"I have not harmed you," said a soft voice. The words, though soft, were as loud to Faith's new ears as if they'd been screamed, and she winced, pulling back as she raised her eyes to see standing before her yet another being. Instead of the streaming light, magnificent and holy, that Mandos and Vairë, Nienna and Estë and Irmo had possessed, this being seemed more… real. It still glowed, but more faintly, reminding Faith of those Christmas candles some people put in their windows—a warm kindling of life. Watching with her new eyes instead of the simple _knowing_ she'd enjoyed in her previous state, the glow burned her eyes almost as much as the sun overhead. This person seemed to be female, with grey eyes that almost perfectly matched the silver hair that streamed nearly to her ankles, and even her skin had a pearly luster.

"You're not one of the Valar," Faith stated with certainty, the words coming garbled and halting from vocal chords that had never been used, and the being smiled. 

"I am one of the Quendi," she replied. She stepped closer, and held out a slender, fine-boned hand. "My name is Celebrían."

Faith eventually placed her own in it. "They're calling me Bronwë here," she said by way of introduction. "Are you my new babysitter?" Celebrían looked puzzled. Faith took pity on her. "It means someone who takes care of children, if their parents can't."

Celebrían nodded in comprehension. "I am not your… babysitter," she said, and gifted Faith with a gentle smile. "It is felt that you need someone to guide you in the ways of Arda, and I am in need of… a distraction." Her face, so beautiful, was haunting in its sadness. "Too long have I brooded upon my misfortune, and 'tis now long past time I moved on."

Something in her tone alerted Faith to a great trauma in Celebrían's past. "What happened?" she asked hesitantly. 

The elleth still clasped Faith's hand, and now her grip (soft skin over fragile bones, tendons shifting) tightened, surprisingly strong, around Faith's fingers. "Sit with me," she entreated, and tugged until the other woman was seating beside her on the sand.

"We're on a beach," Faith said, only just noticing. "And it's daytime." She gazed around, observing that they sat on warm tawny (gritty, rough) sand, their feet just touched by the foam of the waves (cooling, impossibly soft) lapping against the shore. Her eyes hurt, the muscles around them protesting as she squinted against the glare. "Where is this?"

"It is Alqualondë," Celebrían replied. "Haven of the Teleri, and easternmost settlement on Aman." She closed her eyes a moment, pain evident in her voice. "Closest settlement to Arda, where reside my husband and children." Faith didn't know what to say to her companion's obvious grief, and remained silent, instead looking around at their surroundings.

To their right was a pier leading up to a city made of warm, ruddy stone. Swans were carved on every feasible surface, and the more Faith paid attention, the more she saw that there were others besides herself and Celebrían, many others, going about their day in this city on the edge of heaven. It was the first time in many years she had been around more than one or two people, and she felt a dim sense of panic fill her. Fear filled her, tightened within her chest like a fist around her heart, and she (fishlike, mouth open) gasped.

"Be at ease," Celebrían said soothingly, and placed her arm around Faith's shoulders. It didn't help, and Faith threw off the arm, leaping to her feet and dashing away from the city, from the buildings and people and noise. She wasn't accustomed to moving around in a body, however, and soon tired. Falling (hard, gritty, pain) to her knees, she drew in breath after shuddering breath and willed her terror to recede. She hadn't had a real body in so long, and it was odd to feel air in her lungs, the ground beneath her. Pure sensation threatened to overwhelm her, and she felt tears (pooling of water in the eyes, vision blurring) gather.

"There is no need to fear," Celebrían said from behind her, and Faith turned to find the elleth had followed on her heels. "No one will harm you. The Teleri are a peaceful people, none will raise a hand to you."

"I…" Words failed Faith, and she fell silent as she wiped away the (ticklish, distracting) tears from her cheeks. "What's happening?" she asked at last. "I've been shuffled around from god to god, and now to you, and I don't know where I am or what I'm supposed to be doing." Flinging back (stretch of muscle and skin) her head, she stared up at the heavens once more. "Manwë!" she cried out, ignoring Celebrían's gasp of horror. "Manwë! Come here!"

"You must stop," Celebrían said, her voice hushed and urgent as she (pressure, urgency) took hold of Faith's arm. "Please, Bronwë , you must stop."

Faith shook off the elleth's hand and snarled, "I'm tired of being yanked around. I want some answers! Manwë!"

"You shall have your answers, and more besides," replied a voice, vibrant and throbbing with every emotion in the world. It belonged to a man who was not a man, but something greater in every way: taller, larger, beautiful and terrible as an angel. His hair streamed like ribbons of light, and his eyes outshone the stars above as they flashed at Faith, seeming amused at her insolence. "You rang?"

She gulped. If Mandos and Vairë had overwhelmed her, if Nienna and Estë had humbled her, then Manwë… Manwë destroyed her, both destroyed and recreated her in the same moment. Immense knowledge, immense power, but above all, immense wisdom: all flowed from Him steadily, wrapping around her until there was nothing else. He permeated her with all that He was, and Faith once more felt weightless and empty.

"Fill me," she found herself whispering, her voice as coarse as a bellow in the oblivion. "I don't want to be empty any more." 

A wrenching twist, then, and twin jolts of pleasure and pain coursed through Faith until there was nothing but pure sensation, each nerve ending quivering in stimulation. For a moment without end, she hung there in space, and then the hole that gaped within her was filled to overflowing. Awareness of a million things came to her in a torrent even as something took hold of her limbs and pulled; agony flared and then receded like the waves had earlier, and when all faded back to dull grey, she became aware of a sound in the far distance.

Discordant, grating, it came closer and louder until she realized it was a scream, and it came from her own self. Faith snapped her mouth shut, the silence broken now only by the sound of weeping. Turning to it as forms took shape and colours emerged once more in her vision, she found Celebrían crumpled on the ground, sobbing pitifully. No one else seemed to have noticed; the Edhel of Alqualondë continued about their day as if a god had not appeared on the beach and caused a huge ruckus.

"Why is she crying?" Faith asked. "What have you done to her?" Something within her clicked; she had to protect this person. It was her job. "I won't let you hurt her," Faith declared, and dropped into a crouch between the fallen elleth and the divine entity before her. "I won't."

Manwë's gaze, terrible and fierce, softened at that. "I have done nothing; she is not accustomed to the presence of a god." He surveyed her a moment longer. "You are brave," He commented. "You may actually be able to complete the task I set before you." He surveyed her a moment longer. "But not yet." And then He was gone, leaving no footprints in the sand, no indication he had ever been. 

Faith reached out (weight, fighting against gravity) and brushed tear-damp hair from Celebrían's face, wanting (needing) to comfort her, even as she dimly recognized her own need for comfort. The elleth's hair under her fingertips was smooth and soft, and the repetition calmed Faith as it did Celebrían--her weeping gradually ceased and she raised her head to stare at Faith. "What has happened?" she asked, eyes huge and wet.

Faith slumped at her side, exhaustion making her body limp and heavy, and stared out over the sea, toward the east where she now knew her destiny lay. "I think," she ventured, "that I've just been upgraded." 

* * *

And so it was that Faith was made something more than she had been. Allowing Celebrían to lead her into the city of Alqualondë, word of Manwë's patronage spread quickly among the elves. "_Maia_," they called her, though she did not know what that was, and "_Almáriquen_", and "_Cuiviéniel_". None of these mattered to her in the least, because she was far more occupied with her confusion, bitterness, and all-round resentment.  

They only grew as the days, then years, passed.

She had wanted to be filled, had been so achingly tired of the black void within her. But never had she expected… whatever had happened. The pain, the immense speed and panic and rush and fury… Faith had only to close her eyes to feel them all as clearly and strongly as when Manwë had changed her. He had changed her, and she wasn't sure if it were for the better. No more feeling empty, at least—she felt more full than ever before, as if she were bursting with secrets that had nothing to do with her, and which she couldn't possibly understand. 

She knew now that she was, yet again, a pawn. A tool to be augmented and used, and in all likelihood discarded when there was no more need of her. Her split-second of remorse at the moment of her death had made all the difference, allowing the gods to take her their tool, and she could not erase the image of Spike's most infuriating smirk from her mind as she imagined his voice saying, "That'll teach you, hey, pet?" in the tone that had never failed to make her long to stake him.

It would seem that a set of defunct deities from her own dimension had teamed up with an ancient evil from this dimension, both hoping to reestablish a reign of terror and river of blood, yadda yadda… Once more there was a wacky prophecy about a special emissary from the Valar traveling to the east—something apparently quite extraordinary, and which had been ardently opposed and fought against by these evil upstart gods—to dispel the doom and gloom that had been only narrowly avoided a few years ago and which was attempting to rise again. The next phase of the defense of Arda was ready to be put into play, and the emissary was to be Faith herself. 

Dressed now in one of Celebrían's gowns, Faith gazed eastward again, clenching her fists on the stone sill of the window as she had done in Nienna's little imaginary cottage by the sea. She wondered when her sense of privilege would show up as it had when she'd been Called as a Slayer. Not **the** Slayer, of course— _"Never that,"_ she thought, her mouth curling in an acidic little smile—but at least a part of something special, bigger than herself, something with meaning.

This time, she was something even bigger and more powerful than a Slayer, and here she was, not enjoying it at all. "I must be crazy," Faith muttered.

"Perhaps you are merely tired of having no choice in your fate," Celebrían suggested as she swept into the room, floaty white gown trailing behind her with impossible grace. She was no stranger to Faith's mercurial attitudes and frequent sulks.

Faith sighed. "Yeah, it's probably just that. Or," she glanced slyly at the other woman, "I'm horny." Predictably, Celebrían coloured, the pink tingeing her cheeks prettily. It had been quite the experience, explaining to the elleth how humans—here called the _Atani_— got sexual urges that were not profound bindings of soul as well as body. Faith suspected her companion still did not understand, and felt another now-familiar pang of regret that sex for the Edhel was a matter of marriage and eternal love. There would be no casual flings for her in this city, nor any other on Aman. Her booty calls would have to wait until she arrived in Arda. She sighed.

Celebrían had become more friend than chaperone in the few years since Manwë had visited them on the beach. It had taken each many months to trust the other enough to share their own traumas, their wounds, their pain and heartbreak. Celebrían seemed almost eager to do so, but Faith had been a harder nut to crack and it was only when it had been explained to her that she was now, for all intents and purposes, a demi-god (or something like it) that she had broken down. Once she'd gotten it all out, however—everything about her rotten childhood, about Mayor Wilkins, about Buffy and prison and Angel—she'd felt a lot better, and able to concentrate on other things. Each day she grew in knowledge, and the power Manwë had engendered in her seemed to increase, too. It would not be long now before she was sent East, and she said as much to Celebrían.

"You could come with me," she offered, knowing how dearly the elleth missed her family, and not entirely willing to take the journey by herself. 

"I would not dare!" exclaimed Celebrían, horrified by the very idea. "One does not leave Valinor once one is here; sailing West is a covenant, an oath, and I am no oath-breaker."

But Faith had taken no such oath; rather, it had taken her. She had no real place there in Alqualondë, surrounded as she was by elves who were more awed and mystified by her than anything else. She was filled with relief but also terrible apprehension when Ëonwë, herald and messenger of Manwë, appeared to her one sunny morning and said the time to travel East had nearly come; relief that her neither-fish-nor-fowl state with the elves was over, but apprehension of what was to come. She had very little idea of what her new responsibilities were, and even less confidence that she could perform them without bungling horribly. In all, Faith was not a very happy Slayer-cum-Maia.

She decided to take it out on the seamstresses. "Oh, I don't **think** so," she declared when they brought in the gowns made for her. "How am I supposed to get anything done with skirts tangled around my legs?" An hour of ranting and explicit instructions later, they were sent off with an idea of what was acceptable to the so-called _Almáriquen_ and Faith felt immeasurably better. 

When the day came to depart, her only escort to the quay was Celebrían, to Faith's great relief. She was still uncomfortable around large crowds, and a big send-off would have made her feel even weirder than she already did. A large ship of silvery wood, its prow carved into the shape of an immense swan ("These Teleri and their swans!" exclaimed Faith, sighing. There was indeed such a thing as overkill) bobbed gently at the end of the pier, its gangplank outstretched to her like a hand in greeting. 

"Will you return?" asked Celebrían, blinking to hold back her tears. 

"Dunno," Faith replied with false cheer. "I guess I'll do whatever the Valar want me to."

Celebrían nodded, pressed a swift kiss to her friend's cheek, and glided away. Faith watched her slim, tall figure until it disappeared into the masses of elves in the main part of the city, then turned to the ship. Stepping aboard, the first thing she noticed was the total lack of a crew. She turned, hefting up her bag of supplies, and lifted her foot to step back onto the plank, ready to return to the city and demand to know how she was supposed to sail across the sea on a boat the size of Ohio without anyone to steer, or deal with the sails, or any the rest of that nautical stuff. To her horror, she saw the plank was gone and the ship was already underway.

Faith experienced a moment of pure terror, and then relaxed. Wacky impossible stuff was happening in this place all the time; why not now? "I wonder if I'll ever get used to this," she muttered, and plunked herself down on the hard bench. Celebrían had said the trip only took a few days, and so they'd packed a week's worth of food and clothing. The swan-ship slipped past Tol Eressëa, then the Enchanted Isles, and finally she was adrift in the open sea.

"Guess I'll have a nap," she commented to nobody, pulling a tunic from the sack of supplies and wadding it under her head for a pillow.

But sleep would not come. Instead, it began to rain, a steady grey drizzle that soon had Faith drenched to the skin. Every time she thought of going below decks, however, her mind turned instead to wondering what would happen next, and she remained where she was. After a few hours of this, still clad in her clammy garments, she began to wonder why, exactly, she seemed unable to leave the deck.

Then the sheets of rain before the ship glimmered, and turned to a curtain of silver and pearl that rolled back slowly, so slowly. Beyond was a sunlit day, cloudless and dry, and Faith knew her journey was almost over. Fear rose in her, sick and uncomfortable, but she pushed it down and felt her old cockiness rise to the occasion. "Might as well make my appearance memorable," she said, and began to pull fresh clothes from the sack. She always had been one for the grand entrance.

_Quendi_ = elves

_Bronw_ = faith

_Teleri_ = one of the three main types of elves, seafarers who stay close to the shore whether in Aman or Arda

_Aman_ = the Blessed Realm, Valinor, Elvenhome

_Arda_ = Middle-Earth

_Isil_ = the Moon

_Maia_ = (pl. Maiar) A lesser deity than the Valar, rather like an archangel. Gandalf, Saruman, and Radagast are also Maiar

_Almáriquen_ = Blessed One

_Cuiviéniel_ = She Who Has Been Awakened

_Atani_ = Men

_Tol Eressëa_ = island between the Bay of Eldamar and the Enchanted Isles where many Teleri live


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: this chapter dedicated to jiltanith, who was a delight to meet in person whilst I was in Miami this past week, and also TaraKeezer, who is adorable no matter what. Elvish is back to being Sindarin, where it will remain until further notice.

Things you should know to understand what the hell is going on: 

· I have taken the liberty of making Glorfindel the son of Angrod, Galadriel's brother, in this story. She is therefore his aunt, which makes Elrond his cousin-by-marriage, because Elrond is married to Galadriel's daughter. 

· Noldorin elves are primarily dark-haired, but Galadriel's grandmother (and Glorfindel's great-grandmother) was Vanya, who all had golden hair. It's a symbolic reminder of how these two are different from the rest of the Noldor, as the Vanyar never swerved in their fidelity to the Valar and are considered the highest of the High Elves. 

· Bits of The Doom of Mandos have been lifted wholesale from The Silmarillion. 

· Círdan is thought to have awoken at Cuiviénen, meaning he's one of the original, first-ever elves. It would put his age upwards of 40,000 years or more.

· FYI, Glorfindel predicted that the Lord of the Nazgûl could not be killed by a Man. This was taken to mean that the Witch-King was impervious to physical harm, but Éowyn proved them all wrong when she laid the smackdown on his Goth-y ass, with a little help from Merry.

· Mithrandir = Sindarin name for Gandalf.

Blue on Black, Chapter 3

By CinnamonGrrl

_We ride. _

_'Twas me who outran the Nazgûl, 'twas me who carried the halfling away from them and to safety across the Bruinen. And now… now it shall be me who hastened to deliver the Elf-lord Glorfindel of Imladris to the Grey Havens, barely in time to leave for Valinor because he was very, very late indeed._

_I blame the twin sons of Elrond. Had they not entreated him to accompany them on one last orc-hunt, he would have been able to travel with Elrond and Galadriel and the rest of their escort. But on their last day of the hunt, they learned of a particularly large contingent of orcs, complete with a squadron of Uruk-hai in command, and could not resist the lure of decimating those who plague our fair land of Arda. _

_Liberally splattered with black blood, Glorfindel's stench makes my sensitive nose quiver, but I do not shy from him. Rather, I gallop all the faster, for the quicker we arrive at the Havens, the sooner he shall bathe and I can breathe freely once more. The twins' horses can barely keep pace with me, and were I able, I would smile. Not for no reason was I chosen by the Balrog-Slayer for his mount. It is thought that Meara blood runs in my veins; I know nothing of that._

_My master is leaving me to sail to Aman; there is special grace for Shadowfax, which is as it should be, but for humble Asfaloth, there is none. I must take my leave of he who has been my companion for departs West and I am left here. But for now, I shall carry him, and shall not tarry._

_We reach the Havens just as the rest of the party does, and wait at the gates of the city for its lord. Elrond, Galadriel with her mate, Gandalf…the Mirkwood Elf rode with them as well, and there is his freakishly strong wife. The Dwarf that never seems to stray far is present, and there are Hobbits, too; far too many Hobbits. Five of them, if I do not miss my count, and all seem to be speaking at once. _

_Ai, to have less sensitive hearing._

_The Maia is here as well, and beside him stands Shadowfax. I nicker my greeting to the Meara, who returns it, but there is an undercurrent of unease to the sound to it, a tremor that sets me on edge. There is tension in the air, and a tendril of fear in the breeze wends its way to my sensitive nose. I shift uneasily beneath Glorfindel, and he pats my neck as he says a soothing word, but this… this is not something a mere word or gesture can solve._

_Something is afoot._

"Late as usual," Elrond commented neutrally once the three horses had slowed to a walk, his pastel grey eyes flickering over the disheveled appearance of his sons and their companion. "Will you live, then, Glorfindel?" he inquired of his friend, seeing the bloodstains over half his body. This was the only indication of his apprehension for their delay, but the other Elf knew that if he had mentioned it, then he had been worried.

Glorfindel nodded with similar dignity. "I will, my lord," he replied gravely, and dismounted. It was a game they played, he and Elrond: deep pomposity to the public, and hearty laughter on the inside. Only those who knew them well could discern that the gleam in their eyes had taken on a certain humour. "Many thanks for your concern," he continued with a gracious bow, and Elrond's lips quirked a fraction of an inch—the equivalent of a belly-laugh.

Galadriel watched them, her face impassive, but the slightest, smallest tremor of her left eyebrow indicated that, perhaps, she was on to them. Glorfindel turned to her and bowed again. "My lady," he addressed her, " 'tis an honour to join you for this last journey of ours."

"Such an honour," said she, "that you miss our departure from the Last Homely House and must ride like madmen over hill and dale to overtake us?"

Er. "It was your grandsons' fault," Glorfindel replied smoothly, stepping back to reveal them. They glared in his direction as Galadriel rounded on them. He slipped backwards in the crowd, between two of the flock of Hobbits, to the very rear of the group where Elrond awaited him.

"It is only because my sons are usually at fault that you can continue to blame them for all your misfortunes, Glorfindel," the lord of Imladris told him, now allowing a half-smirk to grace his features. 

"Not all my misfortunes," Glorfindel replied easily. "Just the ones that would result in a scolding." He fell quiet then, both watching as Galadriel managed to make her grandsons cower in regret without raising her voice or, indeed, saying anything at all. With that elleth, a raised eyebrow and some prolonged silence could be more effective than a day in a torture chamber for inducing remorse.

"And here I thought you enjoyed being scolded," Elrond murmured slyly. 

"You mistake me for yourself, my lord," replied Glorfindel with a sideways glance at his friend. "For who has been married these many years, and who has remained unclaimed, through death and resurrection?"

At the mention of his wife, Elrond's countenance acquired an expression of eagerness and elation so pronounced it almost embarrassed Glorfindel. It was quickly suppressed, however, by the time Elrond said, "Celebrían does not scold. She… admonishes, and but gently."

"I see a five centuries have great powers over one's memory," Glorfindel retorted, either not noting or not caring how the ears of their companions were now turning toward their conversation. "At least over yours, for I clearly recall her shrieking like a Nazgûl that time back in the Second Age when you—"

"Círdan arrives," Elrond said quickly, relief plain on his face and in his voice to be able to derail their chat.

Glorfindel smiled widely. There was little pleasure to be had on Arda as satisfying as annoying Elrond, that was sure. But his good humour fled at the expression on Círdan's face; the shipwright appeared disturbed, disturbed and surprised and confused. An expression of that sort, on an Elf of Círdan's extreme age, boded ill in the extreme, and Glorfindel found his lazy posture melting away, replaced with the tautness of spine and muscle that pronounced him ready for confrontation.

Círdan did not waste time on pleasantries. "The White Ship is gone," he said, and all sucked in a breath of surprise. "It sailed a sen'night ago, with neither passengers nor crew."

Even wise Celeborn was taken aback by this statement. "How is that possible?"

Círdan met his gaze evenly. "It is not."

Gandalf sighed and turned to Galadriel, who shook her head at his unspoken question. "I know nothing of this," she said, her voice low and trembling. "It speaks of enchantment… has one of your number come forward, Maia?"

"Saruman is dead, Radagast remains at Rhosgobel," he replied, counting off his fellow demi-gods on his fingers. "It could have been Alatar or Pallando, but those two were last seen millennia ago, headed for Rhûn and not looking back. I do not think it was them." 

Galadriel turned to her husband. " 'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed'," she whispered, and tears shimmered in her eyes. " 'Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously, and have stained the land of Aman…ye shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after'."

"The Doom of Mandos," breathed a Lórien Elf to the side of the group, eyes wide with fear. Círdan gestured for them to follow him to his home, and all followed, the lively chatter of before utterly subdued, as if hidden under a blanket of stifling wool.

"What is the Doom of Mandos?" Gimli asked Legolas under his breath, glowering at the sight of the Lady of Lórien in tears.

"The Valar's punishment for those who took the Oath of Fëanor," Legolas replied softly. "None that leave may return. 'Those that endure in Middle-Earth shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden'," he quoted, " 'and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret'."

The Dagnir stared up at her husband. "Not big with the forgiveness, are they?" she asked, mouth twisting wryly. 

"Forgiveness is a currency in short supply," Legolas told her. "There is little more profane to the Valar than kinslaying, and the Noldor committed not only that foul act, but deserted Aman as well. It is not something easily overlooked."

"In short supply, yes, but not nonexistent," Elrond murmured with a glance at Glorfindel. That Elf dropped his gaze in humility, the pang of shame at his actions no duller now than it had been over six thousand years previous. His only excuse for them was his extreme youth; he'd been scarcely two hundred, and easily swayed by his great-uncle Fëanor's passion and brilliance. 

"Much may be forgiven those who die whilst slaying a Balrog," Mithrandir said with sudden humour, and caught Glorfindel's eye, smiling roguishly. "The Valar soften to those who sacrifice themselves for others." He stopped, then, and turned toward the sea. "My Lady," he called to Galadriel, at the front of the procession, "Weep not tears of misery, but of joy, for the ship is coming."

Galadriel pulled from Celeborn's embrace and made her way through the throng to the end of the avenue, staring out over the water. It was faint on the horizon even for those of elven sight, but in that far-off distance the mists seemed to part and a tiny shape appeared, dark in silhouette against the sky. "The White Ship returns," Galadriel intoned, her voice deep and thrilling as it became when its owner was inspired by something more than mere intuition. She seemed to grow even taller, and her eyes glittered like stars. "It returns, and with news both terrible and glad."

Then she slumped a little, and was herself again. Her face was more luminous than usual, and she gave those around her a wobbly smile, tremulous with delight. "I am forgiven," she whispered. "I am forgiven." She turned to her husband. "And still our parting is imminent," she said sadly, lifting her hand to cup the lean plane of his cheek. "You will not join us? For I am loathe to leave without you, my silver lord."

"And I am loathe to stay without you, my golden lady," he replied, voice husky with emotion, and lowered his face to kiss her.

Glorfindel turned away to give them privacy, as did the others, and took this moment to ponder the curious feeling that grew within him at his aunt's words. An idea sprang up in his mind, took root and flowered as it had so long ago, when he had predicted that the Witch-King would not fall by the hand of Man… Centuries later, Éowyn of Rohan had proven him right when she had slain the Lord of the Nazgûl. It had been a long time since he had felt this way, his stomach clenching in both apprehension and anticipation.

He much preferred leaving the prophecies to Galadriel.

The knowledge of the future came to Glorfindel slowly, gradually. Awareness of all else faded as he stared at the cobblestones of the street beneath his feet, willing the message to become clearer, to become something he could understand. When it did, he was sorry it had, for it boded ill. Had he thought all evil was gone from Arda, now that the Ring was no more? He laughed, a brittle sound that drew attention.

"Glorfindel?" Elrond asked, touching his elbow, and the warrior lifted his head to stare in the direction of the ship. 

"I am well," he replied, knowing that his friend was not convinced, but he was unwilling to say more. This was not the time to introduce sad tidings. The bearers of the Three were about to sail West and take their reward for millennia of service. Estel—for Glorfindel had known the king of Gondor and Arnor since his infancy, and had trouble remembering him as anything else—was firmly ensconced on his rightful throne, and a new day had dawned for the Men of Arda. Glorfindel felt rather like it was time to rest after a long day's work. 

His introspection became interrupted by the awareness of a piercing gaze fixed on him, and he turned to find Galadriel watching him, a faint smile on her lovely mouth. "My lady?" he inquired, dragging his attention back to his surroundings.

"I am not sure the time for rest has yet arrived for you, Balrog-Slayer," she told him. "But you are aware of this, I think."

His sigh of resignation was joined by various others. Elrond's was of exasperation that his mother-in-law would be again so cryptic, and the Dwarf's of sheer adulation; Glorfindel quite thought that the Golden Lady could spout filthy limericks in the Black Speech of Mordor whilst performing a naughty dance in a Mannish tavern and the lovesick Khazâdwould do naught but gaze approvingly. _Still_, he amended to himself, _it was reassuring to find such devotion in one of a mortal race_. It had not been his experience that they suffered unduly from either constance nor steadfastness where the more tender emotions were concerned.

"You are fortunate that Lord Celeborn is not a jealous Elf," he murmured to the Dwarf, his tone teasing. "I would have challenged you long ere this moment, the way you so clearly esteem his lady."

Gimli stared up at the very tall Elf before him, gauging whether he should take offense or not. Apparently finding Glorfindel worthy of sharing a joke, he reached up and clapped him on the back, nearly making him stumble. "Ah, but I doubt any lady of yours would be so worthy of my esteem," he said at last, then turned to his closest friend. "And that goes for you as well, Elf," he told Legolas. "Your lady-wife is fine in every way except her deplorable taste in mates."

Legolas quirked a pale brow and glanced over at Dagnir, who was watching them all with indulgent humour. "I quite agree," he replied, sliding a glance at her. "The company she kept prior to meeting me… ai, there is no excuse, not even desperation."

Dagnir frowned. "Haldir isn't that bad," she protested. "I mean, yeah, he's got that whole snooty thing going for him, but he's an excellent friend, and…" she shot a sly look at her husband, "he's just amazing in bed. As Corinne will attest."

"Yes, I have heard Corinne's avowal to that. On many occasions, and usually at the top of her lungs," Legolas said, frowning.

The ship would take another day to arrive, and with a last yearning glance seawards, all retired to Círdan's home for the evening. It was passed with much merriment. The Hobbits, as ever, were in fine form and spent much of the evening in dance and song; Merry even managed to entice Dagnir to her feet. She in turn got Gimli to dance as well. Glorfindel wondered aloud whether there was a correlation between lack of height and rowdiness, for the six shortest people in the room were causing the most noise and excitement. Dagnir thought herself rather mature and diplomatic for ignoring him. The three Hobbits who would remain behind in Middle-Earth bravely refrained from crying most of the time at the thought of their dear friends departing forever. They retired to bed in fine spirits nonetheless, and their exuberance was undiminished the next morning at breakfast, if their annihilation of it was any indication.

"Come," Círdan said at last, "the White Ship is here." And so they all began the trek down to the quay, and Glorfindel soon became aware of the brush of Galadriel's mind against his own as they walked.

_"I know you sensed something yesterday,"_ she said to him in thought. He darted a glance at her; outwardly, her mien was utterly bland. _"If you see something, Glorfindel, you must tell me."_

_"I see…"_ He sighed, unable any longer to ignore or justify the foreboding that had resided in him since he had arrived at the Havens the previous day. "I see doom," he finished at last, and then sighed again when the others looked at him oddly and he realized he had spoken the last aloud. Galadriel smirked at his lack of discretion. Everyone else seemed upset about this pronouncement except for Dagnir and the vampire.

"Doom? Again?" Dagnir demanded, hands on hips, and glared at Glorfindel as if the doom were his fault. He stared calmly back at her, and she heaved a great sigh. "At least we got some warning for the doom this time."

"Yeah," agreed the one called Agaradan, and withdrew a small metal case from the battered coat he wore. Plucking a white cylinder from it, he stuck the end of it in the corner of his mouth and expertly struck flint to steel, catching the end of the cylinder on fire. Inhaling deeply, he grinned rakishly. "I hate when that pesky doom sneaks up on a bloke."

"I almost don't care what the doom is," said Pippin suddenly, "as long as it's finally here!" He turned to Merry, who was watching his cousin with a faint smile on his lips. "I don't much like being kept in suspense."

"You might mind if it were a Balrog, Pip," Merry commented, a little relieved at this humorous turn to the conversation. They were nearly to the docks, and a tension had grown as they walked, now that the moment of separation was at hand.

"Not with this group!" Pippin protested. "There's no way it could withstand all of us!"

"The last time I met a Balrog, Mr. Took," Glorfindel felt compelled to say, "it ended well for neither the demon nor myself." 

"My experience was none too successful, either," added Mithrandir. " 'Tis best to avoid them entirely, if you can."

"Perhaps it's one of the Nazgûl," offered Sam, getting into the moment. "Whatever happened to the other eight that Éowyn didn't kill?"

Frodo paled to hear of this possibility, and reached to rub his shoulder. "I'd rather a Balrog than a Nazgûl," he said faintly.

"It is neither a Balrog nor a Nazgûl," Elrond informed them, his clipped tone indicating his waning patience. "For why would those fell creatures come from Valinor?" He stared directly at Pippin, daring the Hobbit to answer.

"Well," Pippin replied defiantly as they reached the pier where the ship was docked, "I guess that anything can be possible. After all, Gandalf and Dagnir and Glorfindel are here, and who ever heard of people coming back from the dead?"

"Not me," drawled a feminine voice from the ship, and then a strangely dressed woman stepped onto the gangplank that reached to the dock. One of Círdan's apprentices made as if to assist her across, but she merely quirked a dark brow at him whilst smiling rather… hungrily, and he drew back, alarm clear on his ethereal features. Sauntering over the plank, she leapt lightly down to the weathered boards of the dock. "If I hadn't done it myself, I wouldn't have believed it."

A complete silence of near-apocalyptic proportion ensued, and then Glorfindel found himself shoved aside by the vampire. "Faith?" Agaradan demanded, striding forward, coat flaring dramatically to either side.

"Spike?" Her eyes were very wide in her suddenly-pale face, and she opened her mouth to speak again, but was interrupted.

"Faith?" Glorfindel was once again pushed out of the way as Dagnir came forward. Her face was stricken and confused, as if she couldn't decide what to do. 

Her quandary seemed to resolve itself quickly, however, for no sooner had the newcomer whispered, "Buffy?" than Dagnir's fist was flying toward the other woman's face. With a thud that Glorfindel felt in his bones, Faith's head snapped back from the impact, and she crumpled to the deck, unconscious.

_Khazâd_ = Dwarf

Agaradan = agar (blood) + adan (man) = The Bloody One, or The Bloody.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: I know that it's canon for elves to have grey eyes, but I'm going to continue to break this cardinal rule and give them other colours as well. JRRT was fixated on the grey eyes thing, but that gets boring after a while, does it not? Will you all forgive me for this blatant thumbing of the nose to The Great Professor's dictates? Elven eye colours as follows: Legolas blue, Thranduil green, Haldir Elrond Elladan Elrohir Arwen grey, Glorfindel hazel

Blue on Black, Chapter Four

By CinnamonGrrl

The sound of arguing, as if from a great distance, seemed to echo in Faith's head like a gong. She was laying flat on her back with her head on something soft, that much she could tell, but aside from that, she was clueless as to what was happening. Also, the sun seemed to be drilling directly through her closed eyelids into her skull. Owie.

"You stupid cow!" shouted a familiar male voice. "What the sodding hell were you trying to do? You nearly killed her!" 

Ah, right… she'd gotten off the boat and made her grand entrance, which had been well and truly ruined by the appearance of not only Spike but Buffy as well. And then Buffy had hit her. Hard. Right in the jaw, which was throbbing like she was one huge heartbeat. Each beat of her pulse resonated pain through her entire body. As she lay there, a cool hand cupped her cheek, and with the murmuring of a few words, the agony resided to a more tolerable ache.

"I…" This voice was also familiar, and infinitely more frightening to Faith. "I didn't mean to! She always could take a punch like that, before!" Buffy sounded angry, but also a little guilty. _Good_, thought Faith crossly. She was positive she hadn't deserved to be knocked out the moment she stepped foot on Middle-Earth. Sleeping with Angel aside.

"Still striking first and asking questions last, Slayer?" Spike said disgustedly. "I thought you'd grown out of that."

"Spike, the last time I saw her, she was in jail for killing a man," Buffy replied impatiently. "I was there when it happened. I was also there when she stole my body, screwed my boyfriend, flirted with **you**, and in general tried to wreck my life." She paused a moment to take a deep breath, and Faith found she was holding her own, waiting for Buffy to continue. She did, but more quietly, and with a sad note in her voice. "She hates me. Why is it so bad that I get a head start in keeping her from doing any of that again? Cuz, gotta say, if she tries that body-snatching and boyfriend-screwing stuff again, there's not going to be jail in her future this time."

"The last time **I** saw, her, pet, she was workin' with Angel," Spike replied, more quietly as well. "He was teaching her to control herself better, and they were helping each other to—" He stopped abruptly, as if suddenly remembering they had an audience. Faith had to work hard to keep her face from frowning—she wanted to hear the rest.

"To what, Spike?" Buffy prompted, the fine threat of menace in her voice warning him to speak up. "What were they helping each other to do?"

"To live without you," he replied bleakly. "When you died, you left a hole in the world, Buffy. We all dealt with it in different ways." He paused, and when he spoke again, his words were heavily self-deprecating. "Me, if I wasn't babysitting the Niblet I was drinking myself blind. Angel and Faith… they had connections to you that no one else could understand. They learned to depend on each other… she was with Angel when he died, Buffy. And she wasn't the same after… I think she let that demon get her. Without Angel to keep her going, there was nothing for her to live for."

A faint sniffle, then another male voice murmuring comfortingly. Faith couldn't pretend to be unconscious any longer. It was unbearable to hear them pick apart her motives and actions, no matter that they were right. "Shut up, Spike," she said as loudly as she could with her swollen face, and slapped aside the hands that now came to hold her flat.  These hands were larger, stronger, and gripped her more roughly, trying to restrain her. Forcing her eyes open against the sun's glare, she found that the soft pillow her head had been on was a folded cloak, and the rough hands belonged to a large elf who regarded her with the watchful gaze of the bodyguard. 

Faith stuck her hand in the air and waved it impatiently, letting out an 'oof' of effort when someone (big helmet, braids in his beard) grasped it and hauled her to her feet. She was aware the big elf watched her every move. It was unnerving, but she forced herself to ignore it, instead pouring her efforts into confronting Buffy, who stood in the embrace of a significantly handsome Elf. Several dozen others milled around them on the sunny dock: most were elves, but there were a goodly number of short people, and one old guy all in white. "You always did know the right way to welcome a girl, B," she commented to the other woman.

She took a long moment to survey her sister Slayer. No longer a bottle-blond, her light brown hair was pulled into a single long braid, and she wore a travel-stained tunic belted over snug trousers with leather boots. Spike, too, had reverted to his natural hair colour. It was disconcerting to see honey-blond waves falling rakishly over his brow, but the eyes glittering at her with amazement (but mostly suspicion) were the same that had peered at her over many a bottle of beer. The familiarity gave Faith the courage to pull herself together a little. Image was everything.

"So," she found herself saying, "got it all out of your system, or do you wanna hit me again?" She sashayed a few steps closer to Buffy, entirely aware when the other woman pulled away from her elven hottie to confront Faith, fists clenching. "Careful, B. I just might like it," she said in a stage whisper, smiling seductively.

"Flirting's not gonna get you out of this, Faith," Buffy replied tightly. "What game are you playing now?

"Game?" Faith's mouth twisted a brittle, unpleasant smile. "If this is a game, gotta say— it's the least fun game **ever**. Dying was a drag, and whatever Manwë did to me…" She shook her head and laughed a little. "Let's just say, not a lot of fun, what with the pain and the screaming and all."

A sudden hush fell over the crowd at her words, and Faith was very aware then of the lapping of waves against the pylons supporting the docks, the cries of the gulls overhead. There had been a time when her senses had been acute to hear the breathing of those nearby, breathing and heartbeats and if she were very still and careful, even the blinking of their eyes. But that time was gone, now.

The old guy stepped fearlessly up to her; _"Points for bravery,"_ she thought, aware of how everyone else was practically cowering away from her. 

"I am Olórin," he told her. "Though I am known on these shores as Gandalf to Men and Hobbits, and Mithrandir to the Eldar."

"Which you want me to call you?" she asked shortly. What **was** it with this universe and its fondness for giving everyone eight thousand names?

"Gandalf will do nicely," he replied gravely, but there was a twinkle in his eyes that made her more suspicious than anything. The old coot was up to something, Faith just knew it. "What did Manwë do to you?" Gandalf asked. "Who are you?"

"That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" she quipped. "I used to be Faith, before I died."

Buffy sucked in a breath, and Spike looked like he was bursting with questions, but Gandalf raised a hand for silence. "And now? Who are you now?"

Faith felt like she was drowning in his eyes. "Now, I seem to have a whole pile of names," she said at last. _He knows_, she thought as reality seemed to cease to exist but for the space between them. _He knows me. He **is** me._ "Nienna and Estë called me Bronwë. The Elves in Alqualondë called me _Almáriquen_ and _Cuiviéniel_." She pulled in a breath, feeling the welcome oxygen spread throughout her body, and knew this was a crucial moment. She only hoped she handled it properly. "And when Manwë changed me, in my mind, I heard him call me _Maia_."

"Maia, are you?" Gandalf murmured, and something in his eyes flickered and… changed. Became something both deeper and flatter than they had been before. "Maia am I, and ageless as the mountains." His gaze pinned her to the spot, and she felt like she were shrinking. "Sent by the Valar to aid Elves and Men… it sounds familiar." He gave a sudden grin. "It would seem you are Istar. But you will forgive me if I say I am surprised at your appearance? For the rest of us are not nearly so young, nor so…" He gestured toward her clothing. "Scantily clad."

Faith looked down. She thought she look rather well, considering. She'd had the seamstresses modify regular garments until they more closely resembled the fashions of her dimension when she had died: tight, low-riding black trousers and brown leather halter, both designed to reveal rather than conceal, for it was her experience that people were often intimidated by half-naked people and she'd wanted to be as intimidating as she could. It was possible, however, that she might be wrong; Gandalf was swathed in what seemed to be several square miles of fabric, and yet he was completely scary to her. _It had to be the cold eyes,_ she thought, and decided then and there to cultivate appropriately cold eyes for herself in the near future. 

"You're just jealous because you wouldn't look half this good in what I'm wearing," she settled for saying aloud. 

Gandalf swept a disinterested glance down her body once more, and she felt a little ashamed of her behavior, as if it weren't fitting. "You do realize," he said at last, as if she hadn't spoken, "that I shall have to test you."

"Oh, man," Faith said with a gusty sigh, and shook her head, "can it at least be multiple choice? Because I suck at essay—gah!" Her words ended in a squawk, because at that moment Gandalf took a step back, and sparks began to sizzle from the bulbous end of his staff. He pointed it at her, and a stream of pure white fire began to jet in her direction. 

An overwhelming urge to lift her hand swept through Faith. She let her body do what it wanted, and found that both palms were held out, facing him. A low hum filled the air, which seemed to shimmer and warp around her. Just in time, too, because the fire came within an inch of Faith's shocked face before halting. It quivered there for an endless moment, and she knew that if not for the weird crackly energy… **thing**… that pulsed between the flame and her, she would have been one crispy critter. Then, quick as a blink, the fire shot backwards and slammed right into he who had released it in the first place. 

"Wicked," Faith breathed, staring down at her hands. "Hey, are you ok?" she called to Gandalf as he was helped to his feet, and started toward him, but a hand like a vice locked around her upper arm and yanked her back, jerking her around to face that big Elf again. His hair streamed in a torrent of pure gold down his shoulders to his waist, and his hazel eyes were stormy.

"Release her, Glorfindel," Gandalf was saying. "She has passed my test."

Faith pulled her arm free, glaring up at the Elf and rubbing her arm, knowing that she'd soon have bruises from his fingers to match the one that was sure to blossom on her cheek, thanks to Buffy. It was the last straw, and words began to tumble from her unchecked. "I don't know anything about what's happened to me. Celebrían tried to explain as much as possible, but it was too much to remember and I suck at stuff like that and—" To her horror, she felt tears of frustration start, and spun abruptly to face away from them all, blinking furiously as she stared Westward. 

"You are such a bastard," Faith whispered to Manwë. "What did you turn me into? And why the hell didn't you explain any of it to me?" At her words, Manwë's displeasure was felt as the wind picked up and in moments, was howling and whipping the waters around them into a frenzy as steel-grey clouds flooded the sky. Sea spray soon drenched her, running down her bare shoulders and arms in cold rivulets. She knew of the mass exodus to cover behind her, but stayed where she was, aware that Gandalf remained behind as well. 

"What were you testing me for?" she asked at last, her voice faint, as if it were coming from far away.

He joined her in watching the waves; the wind settled somewhat, and the water calmed as the darkened clouds overhead began to disperse. "To see the manner of your magic, Bronwë."

"I have magic?" Faith wiped the droplets from her arms and turned to face him. "Manwë never said anything about magic," she muttered.

"You are Istar, or a wizard, sent to Middle-Earth by the Valar to help those who abide here, in their time of need." He sighed heavily. "In truth, your presence bodes ill for the people of this land, for there were to be but five of us, and we all arrived over two thousand years ago. I only leave now because our task is completed. **Was** completed," he amended tiredly.

"But…" Faith searched her mind for a snippet of the reams of information Celebrían had tried to cram into her student's head. "Didn't one die recently?"

Gandalf nodded slowly, eyes wandering as he pondered her words. "Yes," he said at last, "Saruman has perished." There was a world of emotion in those three words, and Faith wanted to ask more, but the expression on his face was daunting. She thought it best left for another time; maybe she could get him drunk and he'd spill. 

"So, maybe I'm here to replace him," she said instead. "I'm pretty sure Celebrían said that one had died, one was a hermit, two had practically dropped off the face of the earth, and one was probably about to leave for Valinor." She tilted her head to one side. "That last would be you, huh?"

"It was," he said. "But now, with your arrival, I am not so sure it is wise for me to leave when it appears Arda is in need of all the assistance it can garner."

They fell silent in recognition of the wisdom of his words. "I'll be honest with you," Faith told him after a little while. "I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. Ëonwë gave me instructions from Manwë. I'm supposed to travel all over until I find the right people and give them messages… but there's all this power in me. I can feel it, building every day, but don't know how to control it. Sometimes…" She heaved a deep sigh. "Sometimes, I feel like it's taking me over, like I can just go crazy at any time and explode. If you leave, I won't have anyone to tell me how to handle this.

"I used to be a not-so-nice person, Gandalf. I was someone that Buffy came to hate. I hated myself, too, for what I did." She turned huge eyes to him, terrified at pouring her heart out to him, but unable to stop. She had to tell **someone**, and this deserted dock seemed like a good place for it. "I'm so afraid of becoming that evil thing again. I don't want to hurt anyone else."

Gandalf smiled at her, and—coincidentally?—the last of the clouds dissolved. Sun poured over them, and she tilted her head back for a moment, soaking in its warmth. "The nature of your magic," he said, "is defensive. Manwë has made it so that you are unable to harm anyone, Bronwë."

She slumped at his words, and he quickly wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her as her knees went weak in relief. "Oh, good," she whispered, happy until she realized the implications of it. "Wait. Why was Buffy able to hit me, if I'm all defendo-girl?"

"You must be aware of a threat in order to deflect it," he told her. "You must practice so that you are aware at all times; you must learn to extend your consciousness so you are never unaware and therefore vulnerable."

"And I bet it's just that easy?" Faith demanded sarcastically. "I'm not used to all this mental stuff. It's tiring."

"It will not be at all easy," he agreed. "I have no doubt you are fatigued, and there is yet so much more to come. You will require extensive training."

With a visible effort, she pulled away from him and cocked a hip. "Does this mean you're gonna stick around? Teach the new girl?"

"We shall see," was all he would commit to. "In the meanwhile, there is much to be discussed. For whom are these messages?"

Faith sighed. "There are a **ton** of them," she complained, and began to count on her fingers. "The Key… now that I know Buffy's here, I guess Dawn is, too?" At his nod, she continued. "Got one for her, and for the Dagnir, the Peredhil, the Protector, the Scholar, the Guardian, the White, the Elf-stone, the Golden Lady, and the Slayer." She paused. "Wouldn't that be for Buffy, too?"

Gandalf shook his head. "Buffy is the Dagnir," he explained, "and the Slayer is Glorfindel… he gave his life battling a demon, and was sent back after his death to assist in the war against evil, much like the Istari—and now you." He peered at her. "Do you know anything of why he was chosen?"

But Faith ignored his last question. "Was he the grabby guy? He's got a grip like iron." She rubbed her sore arm. "Jerk."

"He is, apart from Dagnir, the most formidable warrior in Arda," Gandalf told her, bushy brow raised at her insult. "His demeanor is mild, but I warn you, do not anger him."

But Faith waved aside his warning. "Yeah, yeah," she replied. "Buffy and Glorfindel being here cuts down on my travel time, which is cool. Do you know where I can find the rest of these people?"

Gandalf smiled widely. "At least half are in this city as we speak," he said. "And the others, though not nearby, are easily found."

"Well, let's get to it!" Faith exclaimed, feeling lighter and less apprehensive than she had since stepping aboard the ship, and they set off in the direction the others had taken, toward Círdan's home. "The sooner this is over with…" She stopped abruptly.

"What is it?" he inquired.

"When this is over," Faith murmured. "When this is over, I don't know what I'm supposed to do… should I return to Valinor?" She frowned and looked as if she would start insulting Manwë again, so Gandalf hastened to reply.

"I find," he said quickly, "that the Valar will direct us when the time comes to know more than we do."

She squinted at him, skepticism plain on her features. "You've got far more faith in then than I do."

He surveyed her a long moment, so long she began to squirm under his regard. "I think," he said finally, "that one of your tasks whilst here is not only as messenger to the Valar, but to live up to your name. There is little that can be done, Bronwë, without faith. If you do not believe that something can be done, you have already failed."

"Ok, Confucius," Faith snapped, feeling cranky with his cryptic talk. "Can we leave off the philosophy lesson for another time? Because I'm sore, hungry, and wet. Not in the mood for anything else right now."

Gandalf sighed, and looked as if **he** wanted to say rude things to Manwë. "Follow me," he said instead, and led her into the city, grumbling under his breath the entire way.

_Bronw_ = faith

_Almáriquen_ = Blessed One

_Cuiviéniel_ = She Who Has Been Awakened

_Maia_ = (pl. Maiar) A lesser deity than the Valar, rather like an archangel. Gandalf, Saruman, and Radagast are also Maiar. 


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: "Hairy newt" is a reference to the Very Secret Diaries of the Fellowship, by Cassandra Claire, in honour of the Hobbit presence in this chapter. Thankfully, Merry does not mention his carrot, no one mistakes anyone else for Pippin, they don't run out of strawberry bath foam, and Sam doesn't have to kill anyone, as no one tries anything. Yet.

Blue on Black, Chapter 5

By CinnamonGrrl

"I want some answers," Buffy stated the moment Gandalf and Faith entered Círdan's house. 

Faith ignored her for the moment, and surveyed her surroundings. Overlooking the harbour, the house was large and airy, with high ceilings and padded benches along the walls, most of which were occupied by the various people she'd met on the docks. Five very short creatures with mullets and hairy feet sat in one corner, one of whom waved shyly at her. She waved back, and turned her attention to the rest of them. Apart from the hairy newt who'd assisted her to her feet and the people she already knew, everyone else was elven. Two of them, handsome, dark-haired with grey eyes, were identical to each other and they in turn looked very much like a third; all three spoke quietly on the far side of the room by the massive fireplace. The huge blond Elf stood in another corner and simply watched, his face impassive.

"You always do," Faith said eventually, turning back to Buffy—but not before she caught the eye of one of the twins and grinned at him. He exchanged an amused look with his brother and met her gaze evenly. "But I think this needs to be done in private."

Buffy eyed her with open skepticism, but nodded. She assured the blond hottie, who she called Legolas, that she would be fine alone with Faith. Faith smiled grimly; there was a time when Buffy definitely would **not** have been safe with her. "_But now_," she mused wryly, "_now, I'm as harmless as a fly."_ She wondered for what she knew would not be the only time how wise it had been of Manwë to relegate her magical powers to only the defensive. The way she was feeling right now, confronted with Buffy's carelessly wounding words, made her sure that blood would have been shed, had she still possessed her Slayer abilities.

Círdan led them to another room, this one small and far less public, and left them there in an aura of blatant hostility. It was clear he was apprehensive, but his face betrayed no emotion. Instead, he bowed slightly, and walked away. Buffy took a seat on a bench under the window and peered closely at her. "Since when do you have a glass jaw?" she asked bluntly. "I've hit you twice as hard in the past, and never seen you go down like that."

"Since I died," Faith retorted, flopping into a chair. "I'm not a Slayer anymore." That last was said with only the slightest tremor, and she draped one leg over the leather-upholstered arm to distract attention from it. "No more sharing that spotlight, B. Just like you always wanted." Her eyes glittered as she stared at the other woman. Sunlight streamed around Buffy's head, lighting it like a halo. Ironic, Faith felt: the person who'd caused her the most anguish was the one universally adored, angelic. 

"That's not what I wanted," Buffy replied, her voice low and angry as she bounded to her feet. "It wasn't about the spotlight, it was about duty. You weren't doing yours."

"Correction: I wasn't doing it the way **you** thought I should. It was always all about you, Buffy 'my way or the highway' Summers." Faith stood as well, but slowly—languid insult plain in every movement-- and got right in the other woman's face. "You didn't want to share. Not your Watcher, not your town, not your destiny. It was all for you, and there was no room for anyone else." 

"There might have been, if you hadn't gone evil and started killing people," Buffy protested, face stricken at the accusations, crossed her arms defensively over her chest. "And it didn't help matters any when you teamed up with our mortal enemy to kill us all. Oh, and there was that little thing with trying to seduce Angel. Really didn't appreciate that, you know."

"Ah, yes," Faith purred. "Angel. You seem to have gotten over him nicely." Her heavy-lidded eyes took on an infinitely worrying expression as she saw Buffy wince; _direct hit_, she crowed inwardly, _but why?_ "Speaking of Angel," she continued after a tiny, very noticeable sigh of nostalgia, "I never did get to thank you for stabbing me. It's not every day the Slayer sacrifices a human to save the life of a vampire. That coma was a lot of fun, too." Pause. "Tell, me, B, at what point did you give up on your high-and-mighty ideals?" 

Buffy ceased drumming her fingers on her elbow—an old and deeply-ingrained habit, when agitated—and frowned in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Faith began to saunter around the room, trailing her fingertips along the table's surface and pretending to study their surroundings. "I mean, between killing Angel to save the world, and almost killing **me** to save **him**—what happened to Little Miss Duty Or Nothing?" She turned to confront the other woman. "Since when is it ok to sacrifice another **Slayer** to save a **vampire**?" Her voice was low, dark, awful; a world of hurt and betrayal echoed in it, making Buffy shiver.

"You were evil, Faith," Buffy gritted out. "You were doing everything you could to get in our way, and we needed Angel to defeat the Mayor. We lost dozens as it was. Without him, everything would have been way worse. If we had failed, thousands would have died. Maybe more." Her eye gleamed, bright and hard, in the sunlight. Faith had changed since last they met, but Buffy wasn't the same person she'd been back then, either. "As far as I was concerned, you were expendable."

Faith couldn't help it; she winced. "Never have to worry about pulled punches with you, at least, B," she murmured, and turned away to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes. "Even before I went bad, I was expendable to you." Blinking rapidly, an internal wail of pain rose within her, as agonizing then as the first time she'd felt it: _No one wants you, Faith. You're not needed. You're **expendable**. _Familiarity with the sentiment didn't make it any easier to cope with.

She bumped into something and realized she had left the smaller room to wander in her musings back to the larger hall where the others were gathered. Blinking, she rubbed her nose and saw it had connected with the very wide and very solid chest of the big blond elf who'd watched her so closely. "Sorry," she mumbled, scrubbing at her eyes, and slid past him into the room, looking for Gandalf.

"This isn't over yet, Faith," Buffy said, a note of regret in her voice as she followed, for she had realized how hurtful her words had been. "You can't just walk away when things get unpleasant." She reached out to take the other woman's arm, to halt her flight, but Faith was still not accustomed to being touched, and Buffy had been manhandling her far too much for one day, to her way of thinking. Not really knowing what she was doing, she followed her instincts and raised her free hand. Palm outward, she pushed against air and was surprised—and yet not—to see Buffy slide back several feet, slamming against the wall hard enough to make a sharp crack when her skull hit it. She slid to the floor, dazed.

Just as Gandalf had said, Faith reached out with her mind and felt, rather than saw, the handsome Elf that had hovered close to Buffy: Legolas, wasn't it? He was coming at her and the hairy newt wasn't far behind him, axe already pulled from his belt. Faith spun to face them, hand sweeping out in an arc, and they were bowled over accordingly. This, too, had felt natural, but her arms were starting to feel so heavy, like there were weights attached to them. She felt her knees go weak as fatigue swept over her in a wave.

"Enough," boomed a voice, and she found an arm looped around her waist, supporting her so she did not fall. She let her head loll back and found the big Elf was the one holding her up. She swayed on her feet, feeling decidedly drunk even thought it had been a long time—too damned long, in her honest opinion—since she'd enjoyed that blissful, muzzy state. Her legs gave out entirely, and the Elf was forced to swing her up into his arms. She slumped against him gratefully.

He turned to Círdan. "Where may I lay her down?" That ancient Elf gave him a look that was just this side of a smirk, and Glorfindel wondered at it. What did the ancient shipwright see? What did he know? For he, too, was a Ringbearer; even though he had not borne Narya for millennia, still there was greater wisdom in him. As he followed the shipwright through the house to a bedchamber, Glorfindel felt no need to ponder his actions. Though this newcomer might be worrisome in the manner of her appearance at the docks and the powers she possessed, still she had not shown aggression, even when struck, grabbed, confronted.

"You may put her here," Círdan said, motioning into the open threshold of a small room. 

"My thanks," Glorfindel replied with a courteous nod, indicating the other Elf could leave them. When they were alone, he placed her on the bed and straightened her limbs before pulling the blanket up to her chin. The desolation on the girl's face when she'd wandered, unknowing, into the room and into him, had stirred his pity. Even now, beneath the dark kohl lining her eyes and garish crimson staining her lips, it was clear to him she was but a child, and a frightened one, at that. He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and watched her a moment longer.

~ * ~

In Círdan's, hall, everyone had separated into various groups, the better to discuss the events of the day. Dagnir muttered unhappily with her husband and Gimli whilst the vampire sat at a small table, creating more of those things he made with pipeweed. "Fags" he called them, and had appropriated far more of Elrond's best stationary in which to roll the weed than that elf-lord was pleased to relinquish. "Not like you're needing it any longer, hey?" Spike had said with a cheeky grin, hand out for the paper. In a moment of rare indulgence now that he was mere weeks from seeing his wife once more, Elrond had shrugged and given it over.

"You need to settle down," said Spike to Buffy with characteristic bluntness. "Faith's done nothing but get beat up since she stepped off the ship, pet," he told her, ignoring her frown. "She's not the same person you knew." He smiled faintly. "If you can give me a second chance, after all the times I tried to kill you, I think you can forgive her, too."

"Who says I've forgiven you?" Buffy asked tiredly, and slumped into a chair next to him. "Ok, yeah, maybe I have. But you never tried to seduce Angel—" here, she was on a roll and missed the quirking of his brow, which was probably for the best in any event—"and you never stole my body and screwed my boyfriend."

"No, Riley wasn't at all my type," he answered snottily, packing away his cigarette supplies and standing. "I only tried to kill you about a dozen times, plotted at least once for the annihilation of the world, and had a sexbot built in your likeness. Which," he reminded her with a leer, "I used with full and revolting abandon. I think if there's forgiveness going round, you can spare a bit for Faith. Bird's not had an easy life, and we don't even know what she's been through since she died."

"But it's Faith," Buffy repeated stubbornly. "She's always wanted everything I had, and if she couldn't have it, she'd try to destroy it." She paused a moment, leaning her head against Legolas' belly as he stood beside her. "I'm afraid of trusting her, and it being a big disastrous mistake that will end in all our deaths," she mumbled into his tunic.

"We're all afraid of that, Buffy," he replied, squinting out the window at the bright day. "I know you never had a chance to know her after Angel sprung her from jail. But the Faith you knew is gone." He laughed, a singularly humourless sound. "Hell, the Faith **_I_** knew is gone. I don't know who this one is. But if the great and powerful Oz—" he jerked a thumb in Gandalf's direction "—says something big is happening, then I think we need to listen to him."

For while Buffy and Faith had been speaking privately, Gandalf had indeed been informing the rest of them that the former's presence here in Middle Earth boded little good for Man, Elf, Hobbit, or Dwarf. Even now, everyone else was huddled in various corners, whispering about what the wizard meant by his cryptic statement. 

Ostensibly tending to Bilbo, whose head was thrown back in uninhibited snoring, the Hobbits bent their heads close together and wondered aloud about what they'd witnessed that day.

"This one's going to be trouble, and no mistake," Sam declared. "The way she dresses! I've never seen so much skin."

"Not even when Floralee Sandheaver fell out of a tree and her frock caught on a branch and tore right off?" Pippin asked, eyes wide as he recalled that memorable event.

"Not even then," Sam declared firmly. Bilbo gave a sleepy snort, as if in punctuation.

"That doesn't mean she's evil," Merry said snippily. He'd missed Floralee's rapid and unclothed descent from the tree, and was still cross about it. "Dagnir knows her from before she came here, and you know what she and Dawn have said about customs in their world. It's not like here, not at all."

"Dagnir also punched her the moment she saw her," Pippin pointed out (quite reasonably, he thought). 

"Well, Gandalf seems to like her," Merry declared, as if that settled the matter for him, and settled more comfortably on the bench beside Bilbo. "I think we should give her a chance." 

Frodo murmured then, quite low so that none of them caught what he said. 

"You look pale, Mr. Frodo. What's wrong?" Sam asked, concern plain on his face as he turned to the other Hobbit. "Is it your shoulder?"

Frodo's hand went automatically to the old wound, rubbing it absently. "No, Sam," he replied faintly. "It's not my shoulder." His wide blue eyes went to the doorway from which Glorfindel had carried Bronwë. "I just have a… bad feeling about her."

"Me, too," Sam agreed, shooting the doorway a look of deep suspicion. "It don't seem natural for a girl to come **off** a boat to Valinor, not dressed like she is." _It was as if,_ Merry thought, _Sam would approve of Bronwë if only she'd come wrapped head to foot in an acre of thick and shapeless wool._ Sam had certainly become a prude since marrying Rosie Cotton. Ironic, that.

"Dawn was dressed almost the same when she came here," Merry reminded him, ever the fair-minded one. 

"But Dawn didn't walk in like she owned the place!" Pippin protested, fiercely protective of his friend even years after being separated. "Dawn—"

"Yes, Pip, we know," Merry said tiredly. This was not the first time he had heard Pippin sing Dawn's praises. "Frodo, what's your bad feeling about Bronwë?"

The former Ringbearer frowned, his wan brow creased in thought. "I'm not sure," he said at last. "She seems... angry. Like there's something she wants, and she won't stop until she has it. I know what that feeling is like…" His voice trailed off as he lost himself in a memory. The other three exchanged glances; Frodo was increasingly prone to mental wandering, lately. When he came back to himself, he flushed and quickly averted his gaze, staring a long moment down at his hands. "I don't trust her," he whispered. "We'll need to keep an eye on her."

"But you're leaving, Mr. Frodo," Sam reminded him sadly. "You're going to Valinor." Left unspoken was the sentiment that the "we" mentioned no longer included Frodo.

"We'll just have to do it for him, Sam," Pippin said at once, looking to stave off the other Hobbit's inevitable sadness at the departure of his friend. 

"Where do you think she'll go? For she can't stay here, can she?" Sam studied the faces of the other occupants of the room. 

"I don't imagine Dagnir trusts Bronwë enough to let her out of her sight," Pippin commented, "so I daresay that wherever Bronwë goes, Dagnir will be right there, too. And where Dagnir goes, there's Agaradan and Legolas, and where Legolas goes, there's Gimli…"

"Yes, Pip, we understand," Merry said impatiently. "Perhaps they will go to Gondor, and take Elessar's advice."

"Then we will have to go, too," replied Pippin breathlessly, a smile beginning to light up his features. "I can't say I would be unhappy to go traveling again."

"Me, neither," admitted Merry. "I would like to see Éowyn and Éomer again," he added. "Wouldn't you, Sam?"

"I can't!" Sam exclaimed. "I have Rosie now, and Elanor. I can't just go gallivanting around Middle-Earth on another wild adventure!" He frowned, and sighed. "Though I dearly would like to."

"It will have to be just Merry and I, then," Pippin said, a little wistfully. "Shall we tell Éowyn and Faramir and Éomer and Elessar you said hello, then?"

"Perhaps you should wait until it's clear what path the girl will take," Bilbo wheezed, struggling to sit up from his nest of blankets. They all started, thinking him asleep during their conversation. "No, Frodo, don't feel bad," he addressed his nephew, seeing how that Hobbit hunched forward, dejected. "For ailing as you are, is there aught you can do?" Frodo shook his head sadly. "You've paid your dues, my lad. It's time to rest." He looked over at Gandalf and met the wizard's gaze, rheumy eyes yet sharp as tacks as some unspoken communication flowed between them. "It's time to rest, for all the Ringbearers."

"And the rest of us will just have to go on alone," Sam intoned, voice solemn, as if he were reading a eulogy. 

But Bilbo laughed. "Samwise, this is just the next step of the journey," he said, and drew his blankets around him once more, closing his eyes and smiling. "Just another journey." And then he fell asleep again.

Narya = the Red Ring, one of the elven Three.

_herves-n____n_ = my wife

Agaradan = agar (blood) + adan (man) = The Bloody One, or The Bloody.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: And we have exposition! I know this story is becoming increasingly complex, what with the combined pantheons at all sorts of stuff. But I figure, Tolkien was confusing as hell and people still like his work, so maybe I can get away with a bit of complexity, yes? (Please say yes)

Blue on Black, Chapter 6

By CinnamonGrrl

_Tall ships and tall kings   
Three times three,   
What brought they from the foundered land   
Over the flowing sea?   
Seven stars and seven stones   
And one white tree._

--recounted by Gandalf, chapter 11, TTT

When Faith awoke next, it was to find Gandalf seated in a chair beside the bed, fingers steepled under his chin as he watched her with gaze unwavering. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the window and fell over his craggy face, throwing it into deep relief. "I have seen into you," he told her suddenly.

"Oh," she said stupidly, unable to think of anything else. What do you say to that, after all? He was looking more stern than usual, and she felt concern blossom in her stomach. "What's wrong?"

"I have seen into you, into Manwë's purpose in creating you a Maia," Gandalf explained, and leant back in the chair. He dropped his hands to his lap and, for a moment, seemed as if he felt every year of life that lay upon him. "There is a great conflict arising, Bronwë."

"I know," she replied crossly, and sat up. "Kinda why I'm here."

"You know, but you do not realize that you are the lynch-pin around which all will revolve."

"Me?" Faith felt herself blanch, and the concern bloomed into fully-grown fear. "Why me?"

Gandalf lips curled in a thin smile. "I think you already know the answer to that." 

Faith slumped back against the pillows. "Yeah." Resentment began a slow burn in her belly alongside the fear. "I'm convenient."

Now his smile became full-fledged. "No, Bronwë." He tilted his head to the side slowly, surveying her even more closely. "Can it be possible? Can it be that even this, Manwë did not show you?"

"He didn't show me half of what I need to know, it seems," Faith snapped, then folded her arms over her chest and frowned crossly at him. "Will you just spit it out already, G? Really not feeling a lot of love for the word-puzzles, here."

The wizard looked bemused at the nickname, but continued. "You were chosen, _Cuiviéniel_, because of your hope."

"My huh?"

"Your hope. Even in the darkest days of your despair, you never gave up hope. Even in the darkest nights of your wickedness, hope still lived in you. That is how you were able to be rescued from the grip of evil—it was never able to entirely hold you."

Alarm spread throughout Faith like a wild fire. "That's not true," she gasped. "I gave up hoping years ago, even before I became a Slayer. And even if any managed to last until I got to Sunnydale, the warm welcome I received killed it." Pause. "And I **know** I didn't have any when I went to prison… there's no way hope can last in a pit like that. When Angel sprung me, there was at least him." She stared intently into his eyes, her own wide and dark. "And then he died, and there really was nothing." She fell silent then, presenting him with her profile as she stared out the window, lost in memories. For a moment, her features were bruised by grief. 

"If that were true, Bronwë, you would not be here at this moment," Gandalf told her as gently as he knew how. "The futures of Men, Elves, Maiar, and the Valar Themselves would not be pinned to you in this fragile time if that were true. For these lands need hope, if they are to vanquish the coming evil. You are the herald of coming days, the bearer of the torch that shall light the path toward victory." He leaned forward, suddenly intense. "We cannot do this without you."

Shock hit her like a hammer. This was **huge**, even bigger than she'd thought when Manwë had first filled her with so much power and knowledge. Ëonwë had led her to believe she was just a courier, here to deliver some messages and pick up a few things for the gods. How the hell did the Valar think she could handle it? Her voice was small when she asked, "What am I supposed to do, then?"

"I would like to know this, too," said a feminine voice from the door, and she looked with Gandalf to see the lovely elleth standing in the threshold, the silver-haired elf at her side. The dark elf was at her back and peered over her shoulder into the room, gaze piercing as he inspected Faith. She tugged self-consciously at her leather halter top and wished she had a protective coating of lipstick, at least—he made her feel like he could see right through her. As Gandalf had just finished doing that, it wasn't really a sensation she enjoyed.

Faith swung her legs over the side of the bed and pushed herself to her feet. "I think," she said, frustration fuelling her, "It's time to enlighten everyone." She left the room, tailed by the others, and felt a surge of the power and knowledge swelling within her, the becoming-familiar sensation of the Valar working through her. Back in the great hall, Faith stood at Gandalf's side and waited impatiently whilst he addressed the assembly. 

"Bronwë has come as envoy of the Valar, and I have seen into her heart. No matter what you may have known of her past—" he stared at Buffy when he said this "—I am satisfied that it is pure." He stepped aside and motioned for Faith to come forward.

Brazening it out, Faith lifted her chin and shook her hair out over her bare shoulders, cocking her hips in their tight trousers to the side. "Well," she began. "You're probably wondering about me." She took a deep breath before launching into it. "I died. Then I woke up. Mandos sent me to Nienna, who sent me to Estë. Manwë remade my body and turned me into a Maia." She gave a shaky laugh. "Still not sure what that entails." She looked out over her audience; wide eyes and utter silence met her, and the urge to bolt surged up in her. 

She forged on. "Manwë sent me West to East, to bring messages to a bunch of you, and also to retrieve some things that have been lost, so they can't be used against us in the coming conflict."

"What is the nature of the coming conflict?" asked the silver-haired elf, who Gandalf had identified as Celeborn. 

"And what are the misplaced items?" added the dark-haired one. He was Elrond, and Faith couldn't quite suppress her smile, because she had heard many a tale of him from his wife, Celebrían. It was hard to match that elleth's tales of mischief and lightheartedness with this austere statesman. He shifted slightly under the force of her grin.

"Are all of you aware of what happened a few years ago, with the Netjeru?" Faith asked first. When all nodded, she continued. "The items I need to find are the Palantíri," she replied at last, and was aware of the gasps resonating throughout the room. "The Valar don't want the bad guys getting their hands on them. The last information they were able to obtain was that the Netjeru were on the warpath and seeking any way at all to get an edge over the Valar and Their followers. If they had the Palantíri, they could have a huge advantage over us."

"Not another bloody quest," Spike muttered. 

But Buffy's eyes were locked on Faith. "Waitaminnit," she said, eyes narrow as she figured it out. "West to East… It's you," she stated at last with complete certainty. "All that crap with Aker two years ago. It was all to prevent **you** from coming here from Valinor."

Faith nodded slowly. "It's all been a game of chess. The Valar obtained two warriors to help in the conflict they knew was coming—I'm guessing you and me—and the Netjeru countered with trying to stop at least one of us with the whole cartouche deal. But you stopped that from happening, and now I'm here after all. I have to hand out the messages, and then collect the Palantíri so they can't be used by the Netjeru."

"One of the Stones is here, with us," Elrond said, glancing at Gandalf, who nodded and patted a bulge in his pocket, "and two are in Minas Tirith, in the hands of Elessar King." A sigh of relief went through the room.

"Can we trust this Elessar guy?" Faith asked skeptically. "Wouldn't be the first time someone was seduced by the dark side." 

"I think it's safe to say that every person here would trust Elessar with our lives," Buffy said coolly. "We'd all die for him, too."

"Easy, B," Faith said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. "Didn't mean to insult the guy, if he's your pal."

"**My** pal," Buffy replied acidly, "also the pal of half the people in this room, and related to the other half."

Faith smirked. "My bad," she said demurely. "So, if three of the Stones are safe, that just leaves four more I've gotta find."

"This will be no easy task," Glorfindel interjected. "Two Palantíri are lost in the Bay of Ice, Forochel. The Osgiliath-stone was destroyed when that city was sacked, five centuries ago. And the Ithil-stone is buried under Barad-dûr in Mordor…" His voice trailed away for a moment. "I see no way you can accomplish this on your own, _Almáriquen_."

She winced. "Uh, it's just Faith. Or Bronwë. I can stand Bronwë. But those saintly names give me the wiggins."

Glorfindel nodded slowly. "My apologies… Bronwë. But my objection remains. You cannot do this alone."

"So, I'll get a map," she replied, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. "I've got tons of supplies, and buckets of money. Manwë stuffed a working knowledge of like twenty languages into my head, and even if my body can't do it, I can still remember using all sorts of weapons from when I was a Slayer. A little practice, I'll be fine. I'll manage."

Glorfindel just stared at her. She was either the bravest creature he'd ever encountered, or the single most foolhardy and naïve one. His intuition was telling him it was more the latter than the former. He sighed.

"So," Buffy began busily from her side of the room, "Let's recap. The Netjeru have cooked up something especially freaksome to try to lay the smackdown on us and so we've got to round up the missing Palantíri before the Big Bad gets its grubby mitts on them and we're screwed. That about it?"

Faith nodded, then frowned. "Wait. What do you mean 'we', kemosabe?" she demanded. "This is my mission, not yours."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Why do you think I'm here, Faith?" she said, her tone exasperated. "It sure wasn't to help with the Fellowship—they'd have been fine without me. I'm here because of this thing with the Netjeru. It began with Aker and Corinne and Haldir, and now this is the next step." She moved closer to Faith. "I'm willing to give you a chance, but I'm not stupid. First of all, I'm not going to let you wander around Arda without someone to keep an eye on you. You went bad once, who's to say it can't happen again?"

Faith glared through slitted eyes but couldn't find anything say in rebuttal. It was, after all, a recurring nightmare of hers: submitting to the pull of evil.

"And second, you don't know where anything is, and would end up completely lost, and probably in lots of danger, besides. If the Netjeru are after the Palantíri, they're not going to stop at killing anyone who gets in Their way. If Gandalf's right, we need to keep you alive." She stepped back again and eyes Faith. "I laid you out with one punch, and your powers aren't anywhere near what they need to be to stay alive in Middle-Earth by yourself. Plus, you know nothing about the Netjeru. You need Corinne to explain which ones are the good and which are the bad, and all their weaknesses, how to deal with them."

Faith burned with embarrassment and anger. She hated feeling vulnerable; the best day of her first life had been when she'd felt the first surge of strength within her slight teenaged body, strength and speed and agility that had only grown as the years passed. Now that was all gone, and she was left with a body that was almost completely useless. "This new body sucks," she couldn't keep from whining.

Buffy grinned unexpectedly. "Yep," she agreed. "That's why you can't go wandering around on your own."

Spike, slumped against the wall and chain-smoking throughout the proceedings, heaved a sigh. "Oh, **sodding** hell," he said. "You've just volunteered us to chivvy her around the world, 'aven't you?" 

"Shut up, Spike," Buffy replied cheerfully, and returned to Legolas' side. "You ok with this, honey? You're not hankering to get home and be a couch-potato, are you?"

"Home is wherever you are, _herves-nîn_," he replied since he had no idea what a couch-potato was, and lifted her hand to his lips to brush a brief kiss across her fingers before turning to Gimli. "What say you, elf-friend? Now that your labours in rebuilding Minas Tirith are complete, will you join us?"

"Aye," the dwarf agreed readily. "It has been too long ere my axe has tasted blood."

Merry and Pippin exchanged glances with Frodo and Sam for just a moment before stepping forward. "We'll come, too, if you please," Merry said earnestly. "We have an interest in this, too!"

"We shall ride with you as far as Imladris," stated Elladan (or perhaps it was Elrohir).

"If you journey to Lórien, I will come with your party as well," Celeborn stated. 

"If we go from Imladris to Lórien, best to take the Redhorn Pass," Gimli mentioned to Legolas, "else your father will learn of our approach and want to come along. He enjoyed himself far too much on our last adventure, Greenleaf."

Legolas grimaced. "An excellent point, Gimli. Yes, the Redhorn Pass would be best, I think."

Faith listened to all of this will increasing frustration until she couldn't take anymore. "Don't I have any say in this at all?" she exploded. 

All eyes turned to her. "This isn't just your gig, pet," Spike reminded her. "We're all members of the Buggered Destinies club." He drew himself up to his full height and fixed his cerulean gaze on her. "I'm the Protector. Still haven't figured out of what, but one o' those gods we met a few years back said that's what I was." He paused. "He was right tasty, too, that one." Everyone but Buffy and Faith looked queasy at his words. 

"You're the Protector?" He nodded, and she sighed in relief. "Good. One less person for me to find." She reached out and grabbed his lapel, yanking him close. "Listen, I have something to tell you."

He tugged himself away from her. "Careful with the delicates!" he protested, lovingly smoothing the battered black leather.

Faith glared at him until he was paying attention. "Here's your damned message," she growled. "You are the Protector…" Her voice slowed, took on a dreamy, echoing quality until it sounded nearly identical to how Galadriel sounded when she was receiving her visions. "…and your duty is to guard the Key. Should she need your pain for hers, you shall give it. Should she need your life for hers, you shall give it." Faith stared at Spike, her eyes glowing almost as brightly as coals. "If you must destroy all she holds dear to keep her safe, you must do it. Nothing must compromise the Key."

The fire in her eyes banked, but did not leave entirely. Faith shook her head like a wet dog, then grinned. "That was wicked freaky!" she exclaimed, then rubbed her hands together. "Ok, who's next?" Her gaze lit on Elrond. "You," she said, and he blinked in alarm. "I've got something for you better than a message from the Valar."

He quirked a dark brow. "Oh?"

Faith pulled a rather squashed parchment scroll from the back pocket of her snug trousers. "A letter from Celebrían." And then she jumped back as the ever-dignified Lord of Imladris and bearer of one of the Three reached out and snatched the scroll from her hands, wrenching the seal off and opening it greedily. The twins clustered close by him, reading over his shoulders. Faith sighed. "Buffy, your message must be delivered at the same time as the Elf-Stone's. Where can I find this Elf-Stone guy?"

"Elf-Stone is Elessar," Buffy replied, "and he's in Minas Tirith. That means we have to go all the way back to tell him. Unless…" She turned to Gandalf. "You've got a Palantír, Elessar's got a Palantír... can't we use it to talk to him?"

"No," Faith replied for Gandalf, surprising him. "No using the Palantíri until we've got all of them. We don't know if they can listen in, or know we're using them somehow. Forget it." She frowned. "This has to be done the hard way."

"I hate the hard way," Buffy muttered grouchily. Faith ignored her.

"What about the other messages?" Celeborn inquired.

"There's one for the Key, and the Scholar, they have to be given at the same time as well," Faith replied. "Then there's one for the Guardian, is he around here?"

"Dawn's in Minas Ithil with Boromir and Mercas…" Buffy told her. "The Scholar's married to the Guardian, and they're both in Lórien." She looked at Legolas. "I suppose we could swing by Lórien and grab them and bring them with us to Minas Tirith, since I have to wait for my message." She appeared distinctly disgruntled about the delay.

"You mentioned messages for others as well, Bronwë," Gandalf prompted. "Messages for the White, the Golden Lady, the Peredhil." Galadriel looked up at the mention of her name, and the scroll she'd pinched from her son-in-law trembled once in her hand. 

Ëonwë = messenger/herald of the Valar

_Cuiviéniel_ = She Who Has Been Awakened

_Almáriquen_ = Blessed One

_herves-nîn_ = my wife


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: FYI #1: Regarding the description of Glorfindel as "there were none on Middle-Earth who could surpass this elf-lord in both skill and wisdom": note the "both"—Buffy's a better warrior, and Elrond's wiser, but if you're going for high levels of both, Glorfindel's your guy.

FYI #2: Mind-speakage. Galadriel does it, and in Without I established that her grandchildren could as well, to a lesser extent. Well, the more powerful of elves were all able to do it, too, and it's canon besides. At the end of RotK when they're all shuffling off to Valinor Tolkien writes that Elrond, Galadriel, and Gandalf have a nice chat with each other with only the movement of their eyes as indication of any conversation. Glorfindel's a powerful elf-lord, so it makes sense to me that he'd be capable of this, too.

Blue on Black, Chapter 7

By CinnamonGrrl

Faith felt the cadence of her soul lengthen as it did when the messages were coming through her. "You, who are known as Alatáriel, Artanis, Galadriel, and Nerwen… you who are the Golden Lady of Lórien. You who have borne _Nenya_ these many years. You who joined in the slaying of kin, who defied the Valar and deserted your home for greed of power. You who refused Their summons to return."

Galadriel paled until she was translucent; it made her even more beautiful. "I am sorry," she whispered. "Ilúvatar, search my soul. You will see the depth of my regret."

Faith smiled. "You are forgiven. You passed the test of the One Ring, and have redeemed yourself. Come home, daughter." At her words, Galadriel drew in a shuddering breath and leant against Celeborn, pressing her face to his shoulder in relief. 

"You, Mithrandir the White, and you, Elrond Half-elven," Faith intoned to those two. "You are also to come. We see in your hearts you wish to stay, to guide Man and Elf, Dwarf and Hobbit in this new hour of fear and need. But I tell you, your wisdom is needed in Aman, for this threat is greater than even you may imagine. We have need of you in Valinor. Come home to us, sons of the Ainur."

"All are accounted for but the Slayer," Gandalf murmured, and looked to Glorfindel. He stood to one side, watching quietly. "What is your message for him?"

Faith turned in his direction. "Glorfindel, with hair of gold and will of steel. Elf of Gondolin, chieftain of the House of the Golden Flower. Bearer of the sword Anguirel, slayer of the Balrog. Dearly you wish to come home, to lie again on the soft grasses at the foot of Ezellohar and take your rest, richly deserved after two lifetimes of duty. But your prowess with blade and quickness of mind are needed; shall you serve Us? For We have a new child, and she needs the safety you can provide. For as the Key has her Protector and the Scholar has her Guardian, the Yellow must have her Defender."

At this point, Faith shook herself again. "What the fuck?" she demanded, voice back to normal and all traces of serenity completely vanished from her face, replaced by deep dissatisfaction. "The Yellow? I'm the **Yellow**?" 

"Yellow is the colour of hope," Gandalf said in what he hoped was a soothing tone, but could not disguise all of his irritation at her continued resistance to what the Valar had decreed her destiny. She continued on her tirade as Elrond stepped over to his visibly-shaken friend.

"She does make it a tempting offer, does she not?" he murmured dryly to Glorfindel, who stood with wide eyes and bemused expression. 

"Easy for you to jest, Peredhil," Glorfindel murmured in kind. "You have been called home, and shall be in your wife's arms by week's end." He sighed. "It seems that my own rest shall indeed be delayed."

"So you shall heed this invitation?" Elrond knew how great the other elf's disappointment must be, for he had spoken of little else besides the many great places of Elvenhome he wished to show his friend. 

"Even were I not requested, I would have stayed," Glorfindel replied with a tiny smile. " 'Tis clear to me that this one needs a keeper, else she would swiftly perish. Someone must remain with her and keep her alive, if she is to bear the duty the Valar have placed upon her shoulders. Dagnir and the others have their own fates to pursue; this appears to be mine."

"And it must be you?" Elrond was aware he was whining a little but he, too, was disappointed that he would not be able to share his exploration of Valinor with Glorfindel.

"Who better?" Glorfindel met his friend's gaze and held it steadily; there was no arrogance in him when he spoke these words. It was a common fact that there were none on Middle-Earth who could surpass this elf-lord in both skill and wisdom.

"Who, indeed," Elrond agreed reluctantly, and placed his hand on Glorfindel's shoulder. "It pains me to sail without you, _meldir_. But…" At the other's inquiring glance, he grinned suddenly and continued. "If you shall stay, promise to keep my sons in line? For I fear for the future of this land without a guiding hand to keep them from mischief."

An outraged "Ada!" came from across the room, where apparently Elrohir (or perhaps Elladan) had heard his father's disparagement. He was almost drowned out, however, by Faith's surly exclamation of "They gave me a colour without asking me, and it's yellow?" from a third point in the room. Glorfindel and Elrond shared a smile. 

"At least it shall not be a boring task," the former commented. 

Elrond quirked a brow. "I am willing to wager you shall rue those words, before next we meet."

A golden brow mimicked the arch of the raven one. "A wager? Most unwise of you, Peredhil. I am renowned for my patience."

"I fucking **hate** yellow!"

"With each new speech that comes from her mouth, you become yet more pale, Balrog-Slayer," commented Elrond slyly. "I do not wonder at it, as you will have to deal with not only the Yellow—" here he snickered at Faith's horror of the appellation "—but her old acquaintances. It is clear—"

A growl of "Shut it, will you? 'S just a colour," was punctuated by the clicking of flint upon steel, then the distinctive scent of pipeweed in the afternoon air. 

"—that there will be many lively… **conversations**… between them--"

"**Both** of you shut up!" Buffy told them tiredly. 

"—and I fear that famous patience of yours will be sorely tested. Still, I am a generous elf. Our wager shall be small."

"Wager?" Gandalf ambled up to them, Bilbo in tow. "We are ever interested in a good wager, are we not, Mr. Baggins?"

"Aye, aye," Bilbo agreed, peering far up at his much taller companions. "Put me down for twice whatever Lord Elrond bets." He plunked himself on another bench and tucked his blankets more snugly round himself, yawning. "Elrond's always right, I've found," he finished comfortably. That elf said nothing, just looked smugly at Glorfindel, who frowned at him. 

"Fine," Glorfindel grumbled. "We have an accord." He slitted a glance sideways. "Do not gloat, Elrond. You know how I hate when you gloat."

~ * ~

It took considerably longer than a mere week for the Ringbearers to depart; Gandalf flat-out refused to go without giving Faith some training with her newfound abilities. Two months was the time he would need, he stated, and told the others to sail on to Valinor without him, but they would not go. Sam entreated everyone to come stay at Bag End.

"Without Frodo there, the place will feel empty as a tomb," he declared. "Besides, Rosie'll have my hide if she learns I didn't ask."

Most declined; Galadriel, Celeborn and Elrond remained in the Grey Havens with Círdan whilst Buffy, Legolas, Gimli, Spike and Glorfindel went off with Elladan and Elrohir on an orc-hunt. Bilbo demurred from returning to the Shire. "How can I go back, after my grand exit?" he asked Sam, and smiled. "Besides, why haul these old bones to Hobbiton when I shall only have to haul them back again?" He was given a comfortable chair by the fire to call his own in Círdan's house, and settled comfortably into it as if he'd never leave.

Frodo said yes, however, because he would like to spend more time with little Elanor, and Gandalf agreed too, which meant Faith would go with him as well. The Istari thought the bucolic, friendly nature of Hobbiton would do nicely for introducing Faith to Middle-Earth. Frodo was sorely disappointed at the need to delay their journey West. The pain in his old Morgul-wound seemed to worsen daily, and the burden on his soul from carrying the Ring grew ever more dense until he was sure he might scream from the weight of it. He forced a smile, however, when one was needed and kept silent as much as possible. In late years, Sam and the others had grown used to him being quiet, so at least he wasn't looked at askance. 

He wasn't the only quiet one; Bronwë didn't seem to speak much, either. Once in a while she'd ask him to read to her from the Red Book. It wasn't that she couldn't read it herself; Manwë had given her a full knowledge of speaking, reading, and writing all the languages of Middle-Earth. "Sometimes, Frodo," she would say, "sometimes, it's all I can do to just breathe." Frodo could certainly understand that, and so he would lead her to the shadiest tree with the softest grass beneath it, and point out the most comfortable root to rest her head upon, and he would read to her of Bilbo's exploits with the Dwarves, and of his own travails with the Fellowship and beyond. 

She never spoke of her own adventures; the most she would say was that she used to be a Slayer like Dagnir, but that she'd died and that was that. Frodo rather felt there was more to the story than that, but wasn't about to press the issue. He could also understand what it was like to hide ugly bits of yourself, bits that no one should ever see.

Bronwë spent as much time as possible with Gandalf; the wizard seemed to be trying to cram as much of his own knowledge and experience into his acolyte's head as possible. He taught her lore of the lands of Middle-Earth; he taught her incantations until her head rang like a bell, the words fighting with each other until she fairly ran away to that shady tree and closed her eyes against the world. 

He taught her to fight with staff and sword. The first time she laid her hand on Glamdring and tried to lift it, tears sprang to her eyes. "I know how to use this," she whispered. "I know how, but I just… can't." Bronwë let the ancient, famed weapon fall to the ground, then stared at it while the clang it made on the rough stones of Sam's garden echoed off the walls of Bag End. "I can barely even pick it up, let alone swing it." Her voice was dark and bitter when she said this, and it reminded Frodo of one of the Gaffer's less successful attempts at brewery, many years ago. 

"I can't lift it either, Miss Bronwë," Sam told her cheerfully as he bustled through his patch of lettuces, oblivious to the more subtle nuances of word and expression. "Them swords is heavy things, and dangerous, besides. You'll get into more trouble with one of them than not, you mark my words."

Frodo offered Sting to Bronwë to practice with, as it was far smaller than the mighty Glamdring, and lighter besides. She took it with thanks, going so far as to offer one of her rare genuine smiles instead of those awful smirks that she gave everyone else, and practiced with it until she passed from being completely terrible to merely ineptly clumsy.

They were to have had until nearly December for Gandalf to teach Bronwë, but barely had November begun, five weeks after she appeared on that dock in the Havens, than Dagnir appeared in the Shire with the rest of the orc-hunters. Men had not yet been forbidden from entering the Shire by the decree King Elessar would one day pass, but still it was far from usual to find an entire group of big people riding on equally large horses through the villages of Michel Delving, South Downs, and Hobbiton itself. 

Frodo had gone down to the village to purchase some sweet mead and also a bit of beef for that night's supper (as Rosie learnt she was all out of both after elevenses when she went to make luncheon) when he heard words, horribly familiar words, that struck fear into the depths of his belly.

"Is this the Shire?" asked a perky feminine voice. "Where can I find Frodo Baggins?" The soft hissing of one demanding, "Sshhire… Bagginsss…" seemed to burrow directly into Frodo's soul. No matter that the speaker and her tone were neither ominous nor foreboding; one does not easily forget what it is like to be hunted by Nazgûl. He gasped loudly, then dropped his parcel of wrapped meat and bottled mead and began to run. His sole, panicked thought was to lead them away from Bag End, to keep Sam and Gandalf and Elanor safe. And so when strong hands grabbed him, halted him, he fought fiercely, with every ounce of might in his body.

"No!" Frodo wailed, eyes wide but unseeing. "No, you cannot have it!"

"Frodo," a soothing voice called to him, first aloud then in his mind. _"Frodo, be calm. There are none here who would harm you."_ Peace flowed from the hands gripping his arms, and focus returned to his vision to show him that Glorfindel knelt in the dirt beside him, gently shaking him. The elf's eyes were earnest and concerned, and Frodo slumped against his wide shoulder in relief. 

"Take me home, please," he said roughly, and hid his face in his hands. He was aware of being lifted, being set on a horse, and then they were in motion. Cries of alarm greeted their arrival at Bag End, and he was handed down from elf to wizard.

"Frodo," Gandalf said kindly, "what have you done to yourself?"

"Made myself seem a right fool," Frodo replied, feeling very cross with himself. _It's over, _he thought sternly. _It's over, and I ought to leave it behind. Soon I'll be in Valinor, and I'll never have to deal with any of this again._ But still the despair would not entirely leave.

His concerns were echoed by Dagnir that evening while they waited for supper (she called it "recovering from dinner"). "There were never that many orcs in the north," she told them. "The lake area is crawling with them."

"There w**e**re that many, and more besides," Glorfindel corrected gently, "but not for many hundreds of years. At Fornost, five hundred years and more ago, I killed so many that there is no way to know the count of them, as did every other Man and Elf in that battle, and still there were thousands more."

"If there is worrisome activity in the north, perhaps we should not journey south just yet," Legolas said, "for this bodes ill, to my way of thinking. Better we should hasten to Forochel and retrieve the Palantíri before the situation worsens, and the Netjeru find them first."

"They can't get them," Bronwë said, and all heads turned to observe her. She stood in the doorway, leaning against it like she were unsure whether to stay or flee. "Only I can get them."

"How do you know?" Dagnir asked, her tone not the friendliest thing Frodo'd ever heard. 

"I just do, B," Bronwë replied, and sauntered into the room at last. There was an extra swing to her hips as she moved that Frodo recognized she adopted sometimes, and then she turned a chair around and straddled it, laying her arms one atop the other and then her chin atop them both, surveying the occupants of Bag End with her dark sloe eyes. "I know all sorts of things."

Now, Frodo wasn't a Hobbit much given to thoughts of females—there had always seemed to be other, more important things on his mind—but sometimes, Bronwë could make a funny itch start at the base of his spine. He had that itch now, and judging by the way a few of the other fellows in the room shifted in the chairs, he wasn't the only one. 

Even Dagnir seemed to notice something, because she snapped, "Cut it out, Faith," whilst glaring daggers at the men. "We have to figure out what to do, not worry about getting everyone a cold shower."

"I think," Glorfindel began, and his voice was a touch deeper than usual, "that we must return to the Havens and seek the counsel of Elrond, Galadriel, and Celeborn. And," he turned to Frodo, "it is time for some of us to leave these shores."

Gandalf sighed at this. "Yes," he agreed slowly, "and I do not think there is aught else I can teach you, Bronwë." 

"You can teach me how to remove the enchantment you placed on all my clothes," she said reasonably, fixing him with a beady stare.

"Yeah, pet, meant to ask you about that," Agaradan commented. Yet another of his pipeweed-sticks, stuck in the corner of his mouth, bobbed up and down as he spoke. "That's a fetching tunic you're wearing."

Bronwë glared down at the offending yellow garment as if it alone were responsible for all the woes in her life. "Practically everything I own is now yellow," she said sourly, pointedly ignoring the widely-grinning Gandalf across the room. "No matter what I do, everything's yellow."

"I only seek to help you accept your destiny," Gandalf protested with a great show of injured innocence. "The Valar have decided that you are the Yellow; why will you fight it?"

Bronwë left at that point, muttering what Frodo thought sounded a bit like telling Gandalf to go do something unspeakable to a Balrog, but that couldn't be right, no. 

"We leave in two days time for the Havens, then," Gandalf announced, grinning around the stem of his pipe, his head wreathed in smoke. And, just as he said, in two days Frodo found himself taking his leave of Bag End for the third time in his life, and hopefully, the last. 

"Goodbye, Elanor," he told the tiny girl, and kissed her forehead. "I suppose you won't remember me."

"Sure she will," Sam insisted, giving his daughter a last tickle before handing her to Rosie. And then they were off, all nine of them. They fetched Merry and Pippin along the way, and then they were eleven. They were a merry group, and even Frodo and Bronwë joined in the jesting and laughter until they approached the gates of the Grey Havens.

"I hate to see you go, and that's a fact," Sam said, slowing old Bill to a walk. His voice was low, as if speaking louder would hurt the time they had left.

"What if I don't know enough?" Bronwë asked Gandalf, twisting before him on Shadowfax to face him. "What if there's more I need to know, and you're not here to tell me what to do?"

He smiled, his eyes nearly disappearing under their bushy brows. "Then you will just have to have faith in yourself, will you not?" She frowned, but he forged on. "And you will not be alone. Even should Dagnir and the others follow their own fates, Glorfindel will remain at your side."

Bronwë gave that elf a look of such inscrutability that Frodo was strongly reminded of Galadriel, for the barest moment. But he was distracted by the opening of the city gates, and then Círdan came forward with Elrond to welcome them.

"So the time has come," Elrond said expansively, relief plain on his noble features. "I am glad."

"You are merely glad to be away from such close quarters with your mother-in-law," Glorfindel murmured as he dismounted and handed the reins of Asfaloth to a stableman.

"She has the reading of minds; do you blame me for this?" Elrond retorted, his voice just as low.

And Frodo was filled with joy to hear such dignified elf-lords jest, even in this darkening time, when disappointment was rife that their defeat of evil had been so short-lived. He found himself smiling, and turned to see Bronwë was watching as Glorfindel swatted at his friend, who danced nimbly out of the way, only to dart behind the Slayer and give a hard yank on his waist-length golden hair. She watched, and she too smiled. And he thought that, just maybe, Middle-Earth would be fine after he left. 

_Nenya_ = the Ring of Adamant, one of the Three. Used by Galadriel to protect the Golden Wood, Lothlórien.

_Alatáriel__, __Artanis__, __Galadriel_, and _Nerwen_ = all various names for the Golden Lady of Lórien

_Ainur_ = gods (literally, The Holy Ones)

_Agaradan_ = Spike's Sindarin name, "Bloody Man" or "The Bloody"


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Regarding the enchanted clothing: this, too, is canon: remember the cloaks given the Fellowship upon departure from Lórien, with special properties of stealth and invisibility? Why not perpetual warmth, too? Regarding Glorfindel's insignia: that's all canon, too—found it in one of the HoMEs (don't remember which—5, perhaps?).

This chapter dedicated to houses for being a superb writer and beta, and all-round amazing person. Glad you're feeling better, sweets.

Blue on Black, Chapter 8

By CinnamonGrrl

Buffy was aware of the tears streaming down her face, but couldn't be bothered wiping them away. It was heartbreaking to watch Frodo say goodbye to Sam, and Galadriel take her leave of Celeborn. She and the elf-witch had shared many long conversations on their travel from Caras Galadhon, and Galadriel had been aware of how painful it would be to leave her husband standing on the shores of Arda whilst she herself sailed off to Valinor, but the rending pain that was clear on her lovely face sent a shaft of sympathetic pain through Buffy. She tried to imagine leaving Legolas behind whilst she had to travel on without him, and could not. Blinded by tears, she groped for his hand, taking it and lifting it to her face.

Surprised, as he was absorbed by his own thoughts, Legolas turned to his wife and stared down, opening his hand and cupping her cheek tenderly. "That will never be us," he murmured for her ears only, gaze traveling over her features as she nuzzled into his palm.

Her eyes flew open, and she returned his stare. "How much longer can you stand it here?" she asked, throat thick with emotion. "I know this is killing you."

For Legolas' own sea-longing had been growing by leaps and bounds. Sometimes, Buffy would wake at night when at home in Ithilien to find Legolas gone from their bed, and knew exactly where to find him: on the shores of the Anduin, gazing downstream toward where the mouth of the mighty river emptied into the sea. Even as far away from it as they were, sometimes there were gulls, and whenever their cries echoed in the sky above, as they did at that moment, Legolas would flinch, though he never said a word about it. Being here in the Grey Havens, surrounded by the sounds of the sea and the gulls, so close to leaving he had only to step on the ship to make it a reality, must have been sheer torture for him.

"I can stand it as long as I must," he replied, and leant his forehead against hers briefly, then pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. "I will never leave you, and will not permit you to leave me."

"I do not know why you grieve so," grumbled Gimli from beside them. "There is at least hope, for you, to see her again." He fixed the two of them with a dark glower. "There is no berth for a Dwarf on a ship bound for Valinor. This is the last these eyes shall look upon her." Narrowing said eyes, he turned away from them, staring into the distance at the horizon, and placed a hand over his breast, where he kept the little rock-crystal case he'd fashioned to hold the three golden hairs Galadriel had given him years ago.

Buffy and Legolas exchanged a look. They had known for years how dazzled Gimli was by Galadriel's beauty, but they had always thought it more of a crush or infatuation. Clearly, they had underestimated him. "I'll miss her too, Gimli," Buffy said softly, coming up beside him and touching his arm. They were the same height, barely five feet tall, and she loved him as dearly as Legolas did. Her heart took on another ache at the pain she saw on his face.

Unexpectedly, he wrapped his burly arms around her and gave her a fierce hug. "Gah," she gurgled as air was forced from her lungs, turning her head so she wasn't breathing beard, and begged silently for Legolas to help her. He just stood and grinned at them, however. "Gimli…" she gasped, "Legolas is feeling left out. He needs a hug, too." Then she staggered back as she was abruptly released, watching as Gimli advanced on his friend, grim intent in his eyes as the elf walked backwards, hands outstretched in protest.

"Ah, no, Gimli. In truth, I am fine. There is no need—gah!" Now it was Buffy's turn to watch and grin as Legolas was hugged to within an inch of his life. Then a soft touch came on her shoulder, and she turned to find Galadriel standing beside her, hands hidden by the graceful folds of her long white gown as she clasped them tightly together in what Buffy knew to be her sole visible characteristic of nerves.

"Galadriel," she murmured, and felt her eyes fill again. "This sucks."

The elf-witch smiled sadly, and reached out to clasp Buffy's hand. "We will meet again, Dagnir," she said, her voice suddenly fierce. "I will allow the Valar no peace until they permit you to sail West."

Buffy sniffled. "You'd better," she said. "Because Legolas won't go unless I can, too, and I don't want him to be stuck here forever. He wants to see his mother again."

Galadriel tilted her head to one side, studying that elf as he finally extricated himself from Gimli's attentions. "And his father?"

Legolas snorted in an almost dwarf-like way. "My father, I have seen enough of for ten mortal lifetimes."

"Oh, Thranduil's not that bad," Buffy protested, hands on hips, then looked around sheepishly as all sound in their area came to a halt. "He… he isn't!" she insisted, but weakly. "Um, Corinne thinks he's great."

"Corinne's got bleeding tragic taste in men, though, pet," Spike drawled. Both Buffy and Celeborn frowned at this, for it was well-known that not only was Corinne married to Buffy's former lover (and still very close friend), Haldir, but had a not-so-secret soft spot for the scholarly Celeborn as well. Spike knew this, of course, and waggled his scarred brow at the Silver Lord. Unimpressed, Celeborn turned away to speak with Bilbo on some doubtlessly pressing matter.

The Hobbits wept unabashedly in farewell, but Faith pointedly refused to look at Gandalf, preferring instead to stare at a gull, at a plank in the dock, at the waves—anywhere but at him. To the side, Elrond and Glorfindel stood silently. The late-autumn wind blew cold and briny around them, tossing their hair around, and the distance between them seemed to stretch and lengthen.

"You will come soon, will you not?" Elrond asked his friend suddenly. "For I know Celebrían will be eager to see you again." Left unspoken were the words, _as will I_.

Glorfindel latched his gaze onto Faith. "I do not know," he said at last. "But I will come when I am able, that much I can promise you."

"And you, my sons? Will you not join us?" Elrond asked Elrohir and Elladan, concern plain on his noble features. "I fear you will lose your choice, if you do not come now."

"It is not yet our time, Ada," Elladan replied quietly. "If it be our fate, we will come." He embraced his father, as did Elrohir. "Please give our warmest regards and affection to Naneth."

"It is time," Círdan said, stepping into their midst. Raising an arm, he gestured for those who would continue west to make their way to the ship. Buffy grabbed Galadriel and hugged her a long moment. Frodo placed a last kiss on the crown of Sam's downturned head, Elrond and Glorfindel clasped arms one last time, and Celeborn laid one last wowzer of a kiss on his wife. 

"So you will have something to remember until we are together again," he told her, attempting to smile. 

Gandalf was the last to board. He made Faith face him. "I am not deserting you," he insisted. "We will meet again, in a very few centuries." At her disbelieving, and entirely unladylike snort, he smiled. "When you are immortal, the span of centuries is like the blink of an eye. You will be fine, child," he told her kindly, and patted her shoulder. "Believe in yourself, Bronwë."

"Be not without cheer," Galadriel said as the lines were untied, and the ship began to bob freely on the waves. "For we will see each other again, in Mandos' halls, if nowhere else. Call to us when you arrive, we shall come." This was mostly for the benefit of the mortals present, of course. 

Then the sails were unfurled, stark white against the cloudless blue sky, and with a shudder they filled with the clean wind that whipped around the observers on the dock. The ship groaned and was in motion, and Buffy felt like crying once more, this time at the stricken expression on Frodo's face as tears rolled down the faces of the three Hobbits left on the dock. Legolas' arm tightened around her, and slowly drew her into his embrace so her face was pressed to his chest. 

Sam was first to turn away. "If I don't go now, my heart's going to break right in two," he said. "It still might, anyway." He murmured his farewell to his fellow Hobbits, then mounted and rode off toward the Shire.

"I've no heart to stay, either," Gimli said gruffly, and made a sound suspiciously like a sniffle. "Let us back to the fire, my lord," he called to Celeborn, who stood at the end of the dock, silver hair blowing in the wind as he watched the ship take his wife from him. "For your fragile elven bones will freeze solid, do you stay here."

Celeborn turned quickly, a frown on his fair brow at the dwarf's words at first. "Fragile?" he wondered aloud. "One would think I'd have perished millennia ago, were I fragile." They walked toward Círdan's home together, one tall and slender and pale, the other squat and ruddy, bound by their devotion to the same elleth.

Buffy and Legolas followed them, joined by Pippin and Merry, and then it was just Glorfindel on the dock with his charge, and the vampire. Faith stood watching the ship leave, and the longing on her face was pronounced. 

"C'mon, Faith," Spike said to her. "Let's go in, pet. It's cold." She blinked at him, as if surprised to find him there, and nodded, preceding them off the dock.

"You handle her well," Glorfindel commented as they retraced their steps to Círdan's.

Spike plucked the pipeweed-tube from his mouth and grinned. "Known her for years. She's not the most complex bird I've ever met." His gaze lingered on another slight figure a hundred yards ahead. There was nothing to say to that, so Glorfindel did not speak as they continued into the city, the only sound around them the whistling of the wind as the White Ship continued to slip toward the horizon.

~ * ~

They did not stay at the Grey Havens long. On the advice of Galadriel, Gandalf, Elrond, and Círdan, it had been decided that in spite of the imminent winter their party would brave the North and find the Stones of Amon Sûl and Annúminas that were lost in the ice bay of Forochel. "Best to make haste, and not tempt the fates," Galadriel advised, and so now they were loaded with all manner of supplies, and even specially-enchanted clothing that would keep them warm in the farthest wastes of the Forodwaith. 

The moment Círdan's chief tailor had handed the stack of garments to Faith, they had shimmered momentarily, and then their soft shades of blue and green—as befit their seafaring Teleri makers—changed and mutated into varying hues of yellow. The Hobbits in particular found it amusing, and their laughter drowned out all surrounding conversation. Faith, however, just sighed. The only thing she'd been able to accomplish, when applying her fledgling skills to the task, was set her clothing on fire rather than change their colour. She gave up.

They left at dawn on the twelfth of November in that year of 3022, following the River Lhûn north. The party consisted of Glorfindel with Faith riding pillion behind him, Buffy with Merry on her horse, Legolas with Gimli behind, Spike with Pippin, and a pack mule for their supplies. Mule aside, they looked rather impressive, especially with Glorfindel all decked out in his heraldic gear. Golden armour shone in the sun, and his shield, slung at Asfaloth's side, was a many-rayed yellow sun on a field of spring-green. With his fair hair streaming unbound to his waist, he was a stirring sight.

Buffy's sigh, as soon as all traces of civilization were behind them, ruffled Merry's curls. "We're going into my old territory," she said happily, leaning back in her saddle and gazing around. "I've missed it." 

"Long have I wanted to see the lands where you lived before we met," Legolas commented. Gimli rode behind him, as usual, and his breath was a plume of white as he added, "Where are the ice-wraiths you claim to have slain so many of?"

"We're not anywhere near ice-wraith country yet, Gimli," Buffy informed him. "Trust me, you won't be so eager to see them after you've killed a hundred or so. Sort of like orcs… they lose their magic after a few dozen."

"Is coming up here going to be a problem for you?" Faith asked Spike from her perch behind Glorfindel. She didn't know how to ride, and flatly refused to learn. Happily, Asfaloth had consented to carry her as well as his master, and after a few hours she stopped hanging on to Glorfindel's waist with a death-grip that threatened to leave bruises. She had even relaxed to the point of surveying their surroundings, and noted that this late in the year, the lush grass of this farthest reach of the Shire was rimed on its tips by frost, and it would only get colder. Wildlife was sure to be less available for the vampire's snacking pleasure as they progressed north.

"Problem?" Spike asked from atop his own mount. It was still so odd, seeing him without the platinum helmet he'd sported back in the day; soft, honey-brown curls fell rakishly over his forehead and were tossed by the gentle breeze as he looked at her. 

"You know," Faith hedged, not wanting to mention his blood-drinking in front of the others. She'd noticed how squeamish they seemed to be about it. "Feeding."

"Nah," he said easily. "I can go a week without feeding, now. And if it becomes a problem, I can always take a few swallows from the horses." Asfaloth whinnied and side-stepped in the opposite direction, prompting a grin from the vampire. 

"What do you mean, **now**?" Faith demanded. "Lots of weird shit has gone down, and no one has told me either dick or all about it." She frowned threateningly at him. "Spill."

Spike explained the happenings of the past few years: Buffy's special brand of immortality, how he himself came to be in Middle-Earth, Dawn's activities since arriving (nearly bursting with pride at being her son's namesake), who Corinne was and how she'd gone from being your average nerd, to being your average nerd who was married to an elf. 

"Those gods tasted like the best wine you can imagine," he said after a few hours of tale-telling, and sighed happily at the memory. "They're the reason I don't need as much blood any more, and why sunlight only gives me a burn instead of killin' me." He glanced ruefully at the pink tinge already beginning to spread over the bared skin of his hand. "And I'll be fine come tomorrow."

"Oh," was all Faith could think to say, overwhelmed by what she'd learned—names, places, battles, monsters. She dropped her weary head to rest against Glorfindel's broad back, where it clunked against his armour. "Ouch. Do you have to wear this all the time?"

"If you will unbuckle me in back, I will remove it." After she undid the buckles fastening his pauldrons to his cuirass, he leapt nimbly down from Asfaloth, to Faith's dismay as she was now on top of the horse by herself, without saddle or reins. Glorfindel stowed the armour on the pack-mule, then slid back in front of Faith. "You are well, Bronwë?"

"Yeah. Now," she answered tersely, and grabbed fistfuls of his tunic. "But I'll be better when I can get off this thing and rub my butt for about an hour."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Huge, huge thanks to houses for her invaluable beta assistance. You should all thank her too, because this chapter would have sucked big hairy balls without her. 

With that mental image seared into your brain, I give you:

Blue on Black, Chapter 9

By CinnamonGrrl

They rode until night began to fall, and made camp in a hollow between two hillocks, mostly shielded from the wind. Gimli started a small cook-fire and Merry began to bustle around, making dinner. Legolas busied himself with the horses, Buffy with making camp, Glorfindel with scouting the area and making sure it was safe. Faith felt pretty useless, so she wandered to the top of the southernmost hill.

"_There's a whole lotta nothing out there_," she thought, turning in a slow circle. There was nothing to be found in either direction but more brown hills. The sky had become overcast, so there were not any stars to liven up the grim scenery either. She sighed and would have returned to camp, but there was Gimli standing between it and her. He appeared to be trying to hide something behind his back.

"I—" he began, then stopped. Was he **blushing**? "Seems to me," he continued, voice low, "that no Istar should go round without a staff, so…" He ducked his head in embarrassment. "Whilst you were at Bag End with Gandalf, I made you something." He revealed that he held a quarterstaff, as tall as he was, of darkly polished wood.

Faith took it hesitantly and ran her fingertips over its surface; carved vines twined down its length, and yet were not uncomfortable to her palm. It was a beautiful piece, a true work of art, and it seemed to exude some sort of power as well: she'd felt a jolt of… recognition, almost, when she first touched it. Gandalf had told her to get a staff as soon as she could, as it would give her much-needed control over herself. But bone-deep suspicion reared up in her, ground into her over the course of years. This dwarf hardly knew her, and this staff was a piece of art. Why would he give it to her? And what did he want in return?

The answer came to her in a flash that left her gasping. Of course. There were no free rides in life, nothing came without a price. The only thing to figure out was, what did he want from her? "Let's see," she said, tapping her fingertip on her chin in false puzzlement. "What can I **possibly** have that you want?"

Gimli frowned. "Your pardon?" He paused. "You do not like it?"

"Oh, I like it, all right," she replied, and sauntered closer. "How do **you** like it? Isn't that what this is all about?" Faith trailed a fingertip down his bearded cheek, watching its progression on his face. "Is it sex you're after? Or something else? Something kinky?" Her dark eyes burned down at him. "I'm not so good at the beating-up any more, sorry. And I stopped selling myself when I got out of prison." She turned her back on him, staring blindly out over the now-dark hills. "You'll have to think of something else."

Comprehension flitted over his craggy features, followed closely by anger as he jerked away from her. "Nay, lass," he replied through gritted teeth. " 'Twas but a gift. I expected nothing in return."

"No gift comes without strings," Faith replied automatically. "No one just makes something like this—" she gestured at the beautiful workmanship "—for no reason, for something they don't know." She turned back, smiled engagingly at him. "C'mon, it can be just between us two. Why'd you give it to me?" Perhaps he thought that, since she was Maia, she had some influence with the Valar. "Does it have something to do with Galadriel, with getting to see her again?"

But Gimli only clenched and unclenched his fists, as if he were trying not to hit her, and without a word, spun on his heel and stomped away.

Faith frowned; was it possible that he'd been telling the truth? That he really **didn't** want anything for the staff? She still held it; she brought it up to examine it further. It really was beautiful, and the hum of power through it called to her. It fit into her hands like it was another part of her body, and suspicion welled up in her once more. Something this good wasn't just a gift. She lifted her head to look at his retreating figure, only to step back a few feet at the sight of Buffy and Legolas stomping up toward her. Behind them, in the hollow, Spike and Glorfindel and the Hobbits watched without speaking, and behind them, Gimli stumped off toward the horses, his spine visibly rigid even at this distance.

"What the **hell** did you say to him?" Buffy demanded, grabbing her arm and hustling her down the hill.

"Ow, ow, ow," Faith chanted against the bruising grip, and swatted clumsily with the staff. Legolas snatched it away from her, and she sucked in a breath at the wordless fury that graced his exquisite features. 

"What have you done to offend him so?" he ground out, eyes like chips of ice. "Why is Gimli so enraged?"

"I suppose you're gonna tell me, now, that he didn't want anything for the staff?" Faith snapped. "Exactly how stupid do you people think I am? I may have just gotten off a boat, but I'm not an idiot. There's no way that—" she waved her hand at the magnificent weapon "—is anything but a bribe."

"He was not bribing you," Legolas informed her coldly after a long, shocked moment. "He spent many days creating that for you, thinking you would appreciate a gift, being new to this world. He, too, has spent much time in a world foreign to him and his kind, and thought you would appreciate something to ease your newness in this place. Dwarves are the finest craftsmen in Middle-Earth; his present is indeed a true honour, and you have thrown it into his face like offal." Tossing the staff at her feet, he turn and strode in the direction of his friend. Buffy did nothing, however, but watch her sadly.

Faith knew that look; even after all these years, she knew when Buffy was cashing a reality check. Must be hard, living in that ivory tower, Faith thought savagely. Buffy's biggest failing, to Faith's way of thinking, was her happy unawareness that some people don't have a safe home, or loving parents, or supportive friends, or genial and faithful Watchers. Some people have nothing but a Calling. "Don't," Faith said, her voice grating in the twilight. "Don't pity me, goddammit."

Buffy dropped her gaze and, hugging her arms around her waist, followed after her husband. Faith picked up the staff and wandered toward the fire. Plopping down on one of the rocks someone had dragged over to serve as a seat, she stared into the flames, oblivious to Pippin's and Merry's wide-eyed stares. Spike ushered them out of the circle of firelight toward the others, near the horses.

Glorfindel watched Faith a long moment, studying her stony countenance, and then knelt beside her, taking her hand. Startled, she tried to pull away but he was far too strong. "Bronwë," he said once she'd settled down, "Deeply it pains me to see that you have no thought of a gift, gently given, but as a bribe. Truly, it is a dark place that you have been."

Faith kept her gaze latched on the fire, idly flicking out tendrils of power like Gandalf had taught her, and watched how she made the tips of the flames all curl in one direction, then the other. She'd had people try to head-shrink her before. It never worked.

"But you are no longer in that dark place," Glorfindel continued, "and you have deeply insulted someone who meant only to honour you. You must make amends."

"I didn't mean to insult him," Faith growled. "Why the hell would he give me this?" She picked it up and brandished it at Glorfindel. "It's gorgeous! Why would he waste it on me, if he didn't want something?"

"Perhaps he did not feel it was a waste," he replied, and took it from her, studying it, then her, in the glow of the firelight. It threw her face into harsh shadow, made her seem hard and ugly. "Perhaps he is simply a kind man, intent on kind deeds."

Her expression of utter incredulity showed how little she believed that was possible. Glorfindel sighed. "It is clear you see the world as a hateful place, devoid of gentleness. But you must relearn how you face it, for here is not the grim place of your birth. You have a new chance at life, Bronwë. Do not discard it so easily by clinging to old wounds."

She snorted. "What would you know about any of that?" she demanded, quelling the panic that began to rise in her belly by replacing it with fury. She swiveled on the stone, lips drawn back in a snarl. "What the hell do you know about murder, and punishment? What do you know about losing yourself?"

Anger flared briefly in his gold-green eyes but was soon banked, replaced by sorrow. "More than you, I would wager," he replied, and suddenly felt quite tired. Resting his hands on his knees, he bowed his head at the long-ago memories of his transgressions. "I slew many of my kinsmen, Bronwë, and have no excuse for it but greed and affront. To assuage an insult against my uncle—for nothing more than injured pride—I took the lives of hundreds." He brought up his golden head and stared her directly in the eye. "Hundreds, Bronwë. Some my relations, some strangers, but all blameless and innocent and undeserving of that death."

Her head whirled, disbelief throbbing in her skull. It was impossible to imagine a being of such light and beauty doing evil things; he was all gold and strength, and his fëa shone almost as brightly as Gandalf's had. She couldn't reconcile his words with the goodness she felt emanating from him.

He face was haunting in its misery before he schooled it to its usual impassivity. "No matter that I died and have been reborn, and walk once more on Arda instead of the hallowed grounds of Valinor. Naught will ever erase the sound of their death-cries from my ears, Bronwë, but I must not linger on it." Glorfindel sucked in a breath and dropped her hand. "I will not speak more about this, for now. But I will say that there is more to be done, more the Valar expect of me. And more they expect of **you**," he added pointedly, and stood easily. "Will you disappoint them?" 

Glorfindel strode over to his pack and began to rummage through it while she watched, speechless. "Will you disappoint **yourself**? For I think you are a fiercer taskmaster than even Manwë could hope to be." Finding what he sought, he returned to her side and dropped a fabric-wrapped packet into her lap. "There, a gift from me, and I want nothing in return."

Faith stared up at him, then down at the packet. If he could come back from the darkness, maybe she could, too—just a little bit, at least. A tiny flicker of hope, like the flames of the fire, leapt within her, though she did not know it at the time. Her inner musings were interrupted by the patter of hairy little feet, and Merry and Pippin dashed into the circle of firelight, each carrying something. 

"For you," Merry said breathlessly, and handed her a long clay pipe. "Agaradan insists it's best to smoke our leaf from those paper tubes of his, but for best enjoyment, a pipe is preferable, I think." Handing it over, he added, "And you don't have to give me a thing for it."

Pippin shouldered his cousin out of the way. "What's a pipe without the weed to put in it?" he said, and plunked a small sack into her hand. "Ruddy useless, I'd say." He grinned guilelessly at her. "I don't want anything for it, miss, but I wouldn't mind a kiss, if you're of a mind to grant me one."

"You two had ought to curb your eavesdropping tendencies," Glorfindel told them mildly, and raised his eyebrows at Spike as the vampire returned to the fireside.

"They gave me the slip," Spike explained, aiming a glare in their direction. "Devious little buggers."

Faith dragged her gaze from the things in her lap to the Hobbits, and then leant forward to place a kiss not only on Pippin's cheek, but Merry's as well. Each clapped a hand over the spot of contact and blushed a glowing pink, grinning foolishly. "Pip!" Merry exclaimed then, "You've forgotten to watch the turnips, they'll be worthless…" Pippin scampered over to where they'd left the meal cooking, leaving Faith watching them numbly.

"Will you not open my gift?" Glorfindel prompted, and she turned her attention to it. The fabric itself was a delight—old, old silk of a blue so faded, it was nearly grey, and she held her breath waiting for it to turn yellow, but it didn't. She removed it to find a padded folder of sorts, with two panels that opened in the centre to reveal a picture in the middle. It was of a city's courtyard, with a lovely fountain in the centre, and seated at the fountain was a dark-haired elf with a flute raised to his lips.

"My friend, Ecthelion," Glorfindel explained. "He died when I did, slain as I was, killing a Balrog. He was a far mightier warrior than I; ever have I wondered why it was I resurrected for Middle-Earth, and not he," he said wonderingly, then smiled. "Not for me, to question the motives of the Valar." He tapped the corner of the small painting. "Do you like it?"

"It's…" Faith stammered, overwhelmed. "You can't give this to me, it's too much." The colours still vivid after so many years, she could almost expect to hear music emanate from the tiny flute held so expertly in the elf's hands. "You're just trying to prove a point. This…" She gazed down at the scene, at the way sunlight sparkled on the fountain's water, on the elf's dark hair, on the silver flute he played. "This is too much for just proving a point." A pause, then she added dryly, "Which, by the way, I get now."

"Say, then, that it is a loan," Glorfindel agreed magnanimously, tilting his head to one side. His hair was like a river of pale honey spilling over his shoulders, and Faith's breath caught at the sight of it. When she did not respond, he said, "Keep it carefully, for it is dear to me."

"You can't trust me with this," Faith muttered, recovering herself and trying to hand it back. "It's too important."

Glorfindel only smiled and stepped back, out of reach. "Bronwë, you have been trusted with the salvation of all Arda. I think one poorly-executed painting by a warrior better noted for his skill with a sword shall not be too heavy a burden for you." She clearly remained unconvinced. "You can do this, Bronwë," he told her, and they both knew he did not speak of keeping the painting safe.

"You're only saying that because you trust the Valar." 

"Yes," he admitted freely. "But I also see the strength in your fëa. You believe you were chosen only because you were available, but think on what I have said. Ecthelion and I died the same day, but They chose me when 'twould have been far wiser to select him. And yet," he finished, "They did not. Clearly, there is more to Their decision than I know. You would be wise to trust in Them."

"Apart from Estë, I don't know any of Them well enough to trust Them," Faith replied sourly. "I've gotten one bum deal after another from Them since I died."

"Then trust **me**," Glorfindel entreated. "Will you trust me?"

Faith was aware of Merry and Pippin and Spike pretending not to listen, aware of Buffy's and Legolas' and Gimli's voices in the distance, aware of the sizzle of sparks as a log dissolved into cinders, and forced herself to pare down her attention as Gandalf had taught her. Focusing on energy instead of form, she saw with her mind instead of her eyes, and the soulless Spike disappeared from her vision, perceptible only as a dreary smudge of shadow. Merry and Pippin's short but lively _fëar_ moved in the periphery of her vision and the fire was a surging, living thing beside her, but even that paled in comparison to the silver-gilt radiance that was Glorfindel.

Cerulean-blue flicked along his edges, proving his honesty, and sea-green showed the trust he seemed to be placing in her. And there, in his centre, was yellow: hope, pure and shining. Faith felt an ache start in her heart, so fierce she thought she might cry from it. "Yes," she found herself saying, listening to her own voice like someone else was saying it. "Yes."

He smiled, then, and the brilliance of it nearly overcame her. With a jolt, she forced her perception back to her eyes from her mind. "Ow," she said distinctly, and wavered on her rock, feeling weary. "This creepy mojo takes a lot out of a girl."

The others returned then, and Glorfindel murmured, "And miles to go before you sleep," glancing meaningfully in Gimli's direction. 

Faith wiped suddenly-clammy hands on her (yellow-clad) knees and stood, stooping to grasp the quarterstaff and making her way over to where the dwarf stood with his friends. Legolas' animosity was almost tangible, and Gimli carefully and pointedly ignored her. 

"I—" Faith began, then shifted uneasily from one foot to another before settling for a cocky stance, and sending a glare in Buffy's and Legolas' direction. "Get lost, will you?"

Legolas looked ready to skin her alive, but Buffy tugged him back toward the fire with a single, searing look of warning in Faith's direction, and then Faith was alone with Gimli.

"I'm really sorry," she mumbled. "No one ever gave me anything before without wanting something in return. The only thing I had to trade was…" Her words began to stumble over each other, and to her horror, hot tears began to blur her vision. She stared fixedly at Gimli's feet, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm really sorry," she repeated, and stuck out her hand with the staff in it. "You can have this back, I'm sure you don't still want me to have it."

But he would not take it. "It is yours, lass," Gimli told her gruffly. "What would a dwarf do with a magic staff? It has nothing on my axe."

Slowly, Faith pulled back her hand until the staff was pressed tightly to her front and raised her gaze to his. "So, there **is** magic in it," she said, and he nodded.

"Aye. Gandalf imbued it with some of his Istari nonsense before he left." Gimli took the staff and turned it until a tiny sigil toward one end faced up. "There, you see? His mark. Carry this, and you carry his protection and magic with you."

The enormity of this gift, and how horribly she'd reacted, welled up in Faith again. "I'm really sorry," she said a third time. "Really."

Gimli gave one of his barking laughs and slapped her on the shoulder so hard she stumbled and almost fell over. "So you've said, lass. So you've said."

When they returned to camp Legolas fixed a gimlet stare on her so fierce she felt like hiding behind Glorfindel. Instead she made a point of raising the staff until it rested on her shoulder—almost clocking Pippin in the head—and stared back at the elf, daring him to comment. "Dinner ready?" she asked lazily.

"Yeah, here." Spike thrust a plate at her moments after Merry filled it. They ate in silence, enjoying the food in spite of the chill wind and bare surroundings, and slowly conversation started again. Whilst all others were involved in their discussions, Spike turned to Faith and offered her a cigarette. 

"And you'll only have to shag me twice for it," he commented slyly around his own fag, bringing up a lit stick to light them.

"You're such an asshole," Faith said on a laugh, and lay back, propping herself on her elbows while she inhaled the tobacco smoke. Filterless, and wrapped in parchment instead of paper, it tasted strong and foreign. 

"Things are different now, Faith," he said after a while, voice pitched low. ""If you don't adapt, you're not going to make it here."

"Yeah, yeah." A flick of ash, a toss of hair. "Think we're all gonna die on this mission thing?"

Shrug, flick. "Dunno. Maybe. The elf wouldn't mind if the two of us croaked, that's for sure." His blue gaze fell upon Legolas across the fire. "You've just guaranteed yourself a lifetime membership in the Sod Off and Die Association, of which yours truly—" here, Spike swept his arms out and made as exaggerated a bow as he could whilst seated, "is a charter member."

"What did you do to get invited?" Faith asked, lips curved in a grin.

Spike looked across the fire again, but not at Legolas this time. "Fell in love with Buffy all those years ago," he said at last. "Jealous pillock won't give a bloke a break… I mean, it's been over thirty years for me since she died. Since I thought she died," he amended with a harsh little laugh. "Not like I still love her or anything."

Something in his tone raised Faith's eyebrow. "You still do, don't you?"

"Nah," he replied easily—too easily-- and stood, unconvincing smile planted squarely on his angular face. "Gonna just check on the horses." And then he was off in a whirl of black leather.

Faith huffed out a breath and tossed the butt of her cigarette into the fire before flopping back onto her back, staring upwards at the uncompromising canopy of dark clouds hiding the sky from view. "He's full of crap," she muttered.

"Who is?" asked an entirely-too-chipper voice and she turned her head to find Merry beside her. "Agaradan?" At her nod, he continued. "He says that about everyone else. I find that those who make accusations are usually guilty of what they're accusing, so it's no shock to me to hear he's got the same problem."

She frowned. "Is everyone here some sort of whacked-out philosopher?" she demanded crossly, then flung her arm over her eyes and breathed deeply of the cool air, feeling it expand her lungs. "I'm tired of all the analysis."

"Then perhaps it is time for bed," Pippin said from her other side. "Want to sleep with us?"

She lifted her arm and peered at him. He beamed at her, a naughty twinkle in his eyes. Faith smirked. If he thought he was gonna out-perv her, he had another thing coming. As it were. "Yeah," she purred. "Set up the bedrolls, short-stuff, and let's bunk down."

"What, really?" Pippin squeaked. Merry just glared at him. 

"Pip, don't bluff if you don't want it called," he snapped. "Now go spread out the bedrolls—far away from Bronwë's—and go to sleep." He turned back to Faith. "Sorry, miss. Pip's just a little…" Words failed him. "He's just Pip."

"S'ok," she said, and got to her feet. She found her pack and readied a place to sleep, then carefully took the three gifts she'd been given and placed them in her pack. "Will you want me to take a watch?" she asked Glorfindel, who was in the middle of discussion with Legolas and Buffy. 

He shook his head and smiled faintly, then returned to his conversation. Faith crawled within the enchanted woolen blankets and found they immediately warmed to her body temperature. Sighing, she curled onto her side and closed her eyes, feeling the tension ease from her muscles. There was so much to learn, so much she had to change. But somehow she didn't feel as unable to do what the Valar expected of her as she had before. "_I just might be able to  do this_," she thought, and then fell asleep.

_fëar_ = souls, plural


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: More wacky Egyptian stuff, like in Without. I am, of course, taking massive liberties with the Egyptian gods and goddesses. Djehuti = Thoth's Kemetic name. 

As promised, this chapter for Technoelfie, not only because she's awesome but because I'm trying to convince her how much she **needs** to do a piece of art featuring Boromir, Faramir, and Haldir schnoogling their offspring. 

Blue on Black, Chapter 10

By CinnamonGrrl

Animosity smolders hotly in Her breast, as it has since Hapi renounced Her as His wife. The duration of Her affliction cannot be measured; time does not pass here as it does where mortals exist. Many years have gone by, and still it is a mere heartbeat's span. She has been His mate, borne His children, and yet now She stands beside me as His discard instead of His consort. Proud She is, my sister Wadjet, and unforgiving; Her rancor shall not be placated easily, nor should it be.

It ought not to be this way; it is Hapi who turns from the will of Netjer, He who refuses to join the rest of Us in taking this world that the Dark One has promised for our assistance in freeing Him. And so the shame burns more brightly, that an outcaste such as Hapi should repudiate His wife, when We but abide by Netjer's decree. I know Her pain, Her disgrace. I feel it as keenly as She, because I too am one of Hapi's discards. His other wife, holder of the other half of His heart, and cast aside when We heeded Netjer. For Hapi follows Her-Wer in His rebellion, in that god's refusal to align with the Dark One. 

Our husband is not the only one, and this rending of sacred vows is not the only rending to take place: Seshat also cleaves from Her mate, Djehuti, in Her intercession for the mortal woman's life and support of Her-Wer's infidelity. Yinepu perished because of Her meddling; this shall not be forgotten. Aker, Heka, and Tayet were also slain, thus striking a terrible blow against Us, but We shall not be thwarted.

I turn to where my sister watches Khnum. Her cobra's head sways in the same tempo as His hands as He kneads. The clay takes shape beneath His hands; I, too, stand mesmerized as a head and limbs take form, seemingly without effort. Khnum takes up a length of wire in His strong hands and uses it to cut the figure free, standing it to one side before taking up more clay, splashing the surface of the wheel with a handful of water, and throwing the clay down.

"Sstill I cannot become familiar with this new practice," Wadjet comments. As a patroness of childbirth and protectress of newborns, Her puzzlement is clear. "It hardly sseems natural, this creation without birth. How sshall you bring these beings to life, if you do not place them within a mother'ss womb?"

"There is naught natural about it, Wadjet," Khnum said grimly, eyes never leaving this latest lump of clay. "I concern myself no longer with nature." He does not say more; since His wife, Satet, was killed by one of the elves of this Middle-Earth We strive to conquer, He has said little, and only works ceaselessly to create the army We shall need to do it.

We watch a moment longer, until He raises His ram's head and fixes Us with a stern glare. "Do not fail me," He tells Us. "I shall follow soon." 

We nod and leave; outside His humble hut, the river is green and swollen. It will not be easy to break through the boundaries between Iw-n-sisi and Middle-Earth but We shall forebear. I change into the griffin vulture that is my other form, and Wadjet becomes fully cobra and twines herself around my neck. I take flight, my powerful wings beating the air in steady rhythm. As great speed is necessary, I fly toward Mertsegur, that mighty mountain around which all of Iw-n-sisi revolves, and circle back to retrace my path toward Khnum's hut. He has just stepped from it, and wipes His hands on a white cloth before lifting them to the sky. 

His mouth moves, thought I cannot hear what He says from this distance, and I feel my sister tighten Her grip around me as She joins Her power to his; I too gather and focus my might and together, We three create a portal of light and flame that is large enough for me to fly through. There is a rush of noise and wind, and then We are through. 

The landscape here is much different from the lush jungle where Khnum resides; and far different from our native desert-lands, as well. It is dry, but cold, and the shock of it startles me, causing me to drop nearly to the ground; Wadjet slips around me in a gesture meant to comfort, and I am soothed, once more climbing high, high toward the clouds. I know what We must do: We must stop the Yellow from finding those Stones, by any means necessary.

We have only to find her, and then she will trouble Us no more.

~ * ~

After a week's travel, the silhouette of the Ered Luin to the west faded from view, and the Emyn Uial rose up in the east, their grey slopes rolling wearily across the plains that encircled Lake Nenuial. The first of the orc attacks had started after a few days, and the party soon switched their traveling times so that they slept during the day and were awake at night, the better to be ready for the oncoming assaults. Whenever one began, the horses, guided by Asfaloth, were sent away to avoid the conflict, and Faith, as the weakest link in their chain of defense, was placed firmly behind Glorfindel, to her great displeasure. 

The first attack was the earliest violence she'd encountered since her death all those years ago, and she was itching to partake in it as she had in days of old, but her distinct lack of prowess was more than adequately proven when she'd wiggled past the Hobbits, past Spike, past Glorfindel himself to take a swing at an orc. He was a particularly puny and weak-looking one, so she thought even she could take him. He'd stopped the downward arc of her staff with one hand, the other reaching for her throat as she struggled to free her weapon. The look of surprise when Glorfindel had severed him in two at the waist remained on his face even as his top half fell to the ground and his grip on Faith's staff slackened. 

"You are very irritating," was all the elf said to her, but his eyes seemed brighter than usual, lit by frustration and anger. Faith felt a pang of something—she wasn't sure what, maybe regret? She couldn't be positive—but it was quickly doused by her indignation. She wasn't used to sitting back like a damsel in distress, and she sure as hell wasn't going to start now. That morning, when they made camp, she announced her intention to become stronger, faster, and less useless in general.

"I'm gonna start jogging," Faith told them. Five people blinked uncomprehendingly at her words; two raised unbelieving eyebrows. "And I'm gonna do sit-ups and push-ups, and Spike, you'll spar with me, right?"

The vampire took a long, contemplative drag on his cigarette before peering at her through its smoke. "Sure, pet," he drawled at last. "Anything you want."

Faith shot him a grateful smile, completely missing his sarcasm. "Thanks," she replied, then bounded to her feet. "Guess I'll start now. A few katas should loosen me up, right?" She took the quarterstaff and walked a short distance from the rest of them, beginning to move in the gestures and actions that were seared into her memory from so many repetitions, back in her first lifetime. Her motions were jerky and graceless, with none of the smooth dexterity that had marked them when she was a Slayer. All too soon, her muscles protested the activity and she was forced to stop. "Dammit," she muttered, her gaze fixed furiously on the brown grass beneath her feet. "Dammit," she repeated, a little louder, and jammed the end of the staff down onto the ground. A tremor flowed from it down into the earth, rippling it under them in a way that should have been impossible, and in the distance could be heard a faint rumble as the world settled back to normal. 

Buffy frowned. "Faith, be careful," she warned. "Pouting isn't just pouting when you're a Maia. If you create some sort of weird crack in Middle-Earth, Gandalf's gonna be way pissed at you."

"Yeah, yeah," Faith grumbled. The reminder of her new powers was not a welcome one; as the time passed since she'd been in Valinor, she felt the small measure of comfort she'd felt at her new status diminish daily. Gandalf's teachings back at Bag End seemed increasingly distant, even though she practiced faithfully whenever she could. Making flames curl was getting pretty boring, however. She'd switched to trying to make Glorfindel's hair curl, with the result that his glorious mane had crimped up into fat ringlets that cascaded down his shoulders and back in a shimmering, rippling spill of gold. It wasn't so easy to return it to its former silken straightness, however, and she found it increasingly difficult as he stood there, waiting patiently as she giggled helplessly. When it had finally worked, he only praised her for her increasing skill before walking away, and Faith found herself unable to stop smiling for some reason. 

The orc attacks remained fairly constant in occurrence and size until the tenth night of their journey, when it seemed every orc in Middle-Earth had come after them. Faith stood uneasily at the very centre of the ring of warriors, surrounded by everyone else. Even the Hobbits were allowed to fight, and fight they did—both Pippin and Merry proved themselves quite adept with their little swords, happily hamstringing anything that came within their reach so the others could finish their opponents off. 

Faith's frustration and humiliation grew in leaps and bounds as the battle raged around her, and yet she was unable to participate or do anything to help. Merry's strength was starting to flag, she noticed, and Pippin was slowing down as well. One received a cut to the hand, the other a slice down the cheek that began to bleed copiously. Faith grabbed them by their collars and yanked them back into relative safety with her. Legolas and Buffy fought to close ranks around the gap, but it was clear that five warriors—no matter how proficient—against a hundred were doomed to failure.

Merry gasped in pain, and Faith looked down to see the sickly pallor of bone gleaming in the dim moonlight, even through the blood that coursed from his face. Pippin took one look and swayed unsteadily on his feet. "It's not that I can't stand the sight of blood, y'understand," he murmured, eyes crossing. "It's just…" And he fainted. And then Merry fainted. Gimli took a hearty knock on the head from a club at that point, and then **he** fainted. Once more the others closed ranks, pulling the circle tighter. Faith tried to drag the dwarf into the defensive ring, but he was far too heavy for her, so she settled for crouching protectively over him. 

Glorfindel and Legolas exchanged a look; it was not an optimistic one. Buffy's mouth was set in a grim line. Only Spike seemed to be enjoying himself as he spun and twirled in his dance of death, coat flaring as he spun on his heel and decapitated yet another orc. His joy was short-lived, because it wasn't too long before his enthusiasm betrayed him, and a lucky orc managed to stab him right in the side. With a surprised groan, he fell to his knees. "Bloody—" he began, but pitched forward onto his face before he could complete the thought.

Panic blossomed in Faith's chest, and she found herself gasping in fear. _"We're all going to die,"_ she thought, but just as swiftly came the conviction that they **couldn't** die. There was more they had to do: she had messages to deliver, Palantíri to find. She had a job to do. "We will not die," she growled, and stood slowly from her crouch over Gimli, staff held loosely in her hand with the ease she'd had so many years before. Just like then, somehow she just innately knew what to do.

_Locate my power,_ she reminded herself, echoing Gandalf's lessons. Had it just been two weeks ago? It seemed like forever. _Locate my power, centre it, draw it into a ball,_ Faith chanted over and over, feeling it pull from every cell in her body, feeling it draw inward from the outer reaches of her limbs. Then, with a harsh jolt, she felt it drag up from the very earth itself, pouring and flooding up into her feet, up her legs, to pool in her belly. She felt it build to a peak, and then forcibly compacted it, then built it up again before once more cramming it down. Soon it felt as if she would burst into a thousand shards from the force of it, felt the tumult inside her as battle raged around her, as pandemonium and noise and blood and motion filled her vision and hearing. 

Faith raised the staff, and with all her might, slammed its end down. With a mighty push, she sent the compressed power within out her arms and into the staff, through it into the ground. A grinding rumble started, and the orcs stopped dead to feel the ground under their feet moving, looking at each other in alarm even as Buffy, Legolas, and Glorfindel continued to cut them down. An unearthly hush fell, a hush that lasted an eternity, and a mere second. A distant sound like the rushing of wind whistled past Faith's ears, and then a massive roar of force burst outward from where her staff had struck the ground. 

She was knocked off her feet, as were the others, but the orcs… the orcs were blasted a good fifty feet back, and something was wrong with them. They seemed suddenly terrified of the party they outnumbered twenty to one, cringing back in fear where before they'd shown none. Faith looked around, grinning wildly, only to find that everyone else (including Pippin and Merry, who'd regained consciousness) was staring at her in horror. 

"What's wrong?" she demanded again of her companions, lowering the staff to her side and glaring at them through the tangled mass of her wind-tossed hair. "C'mon, don't ruin this for me. I'm finally contributing." Faith gestured at the frightened orcs, who'd begun to scuttle back, their eyes never leaving her. Exultant, she raised her staff over her head and waved it joyfully. "This… is my boom-stick!" she yelled at them, then laughed when they scrambled to their feet and ran off. 

The others seemed unable to take their eyes from her until a weak chuckle sounded from the ground, and she turned to find Spike propped on one elbow whilst his free hand pressed closed the wound in his side. "Your boom-stick," he gasped, then flopped onto his back. "You always did have the worst taste in movies."

"Fuck you," she said amiably, squatting down to examine him. "I just saved your skinny ass." Reaching out, she poked his wound, intent on giving him something else to complain about, but to her surprise a tingle flowed down her arm and emerged from her fingertip in a sizzle of golden-yellow light, and there was the smell of scorched flesh. 

"Gah!" she shouted, a shiver of icy-cold wracking her, and the rushing of wind around her faded to nothing as Spike convulsed once, and then was still. 

"Now what did you do?" Buffy demanded, pushing Faith out of the way. "Spike?" She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Spike?"

He slapped away her hands and sat up. "Bloody hell," he said admiringly. Standing, he rucked up the hem of his tunic and gazed down at the smooth, unmarred flesh. Ringed by drying blood, the area really should have sported a gaping sword-wound, but there was… nothing. "What did you do?"

Faith was unnerved by it—she hadn't expected **this**, that's for sure—but sallied forth as usual. "Looks like I healed you," she said jauntily. "Let's see if I can't work a little mojo for the others." But Gimli, finally awake, just glared at her when she reached for him, and insisted he'd take his chances with Legolas' attempts at healing. Stung by his refusal—though she couldn't really blame him—she turned to Merry. He seemed wary, but allowed her to touch her hand to his cut cheek.

She waited a little while, and then a little while more. "Anything?" she asked hopefully.

His face fell. "No," he replied sadly.

Glorfindel stepped up to her, and there was a speculation in his gaze that made Faith catch her breath. "Your power has dissipated," he told her. "Can you gather more?"

She tried to do it again, to pull it from herself and then from the earth, but fatigue had set in and she felt the power slip away before she could get a good grasp on it. "No," she replied, disappointed. 

"You have done well," Glorfindel told her, laying his hand on her shoulder for a moment. "Go and rest now." And he turned to the Hobbits, touching Merry's  bloodied face. Silver-gold light coursed down the length of his arm and out his fingertips before soaking into Merry's cheek; before their eyes, the skin knit into a thin seam. "You will bear a mark of your bravery, Meriadoc," the elf told him gravely, the faintest of smiles hovering on his lips.

Merry stood with Pippin's assistance. "I needed no mark," he began, "but it seems quite dashing to have one, doesn't it?" He turned to his cousin. "Éomer will be very impressed, won't he? And Éowyn, too?"

Pippin laughed in relief. "I'm sure they will be," he replied, "but I'm so hungry now I can barely think straight, especially after seeing Faith glow like that." He turned to Glorfindel, oblivious to how that woman frowned at his words. "I know it's a bit early for it, but can we have luncheon now? I've an aubergine that wants stewing if it's to be used before it goes bad."

Glorfindel nodded absently, sending the Hobbit scampering over toward the returning horses for the aforementioned aubergine and a stew pot. "Come," he said to Faith, and extended his hand to her. "You have questions." She hesitantly placed her hand in his, and allowed him to lead her off. When they were a short distance from the others, Glorfindel dropped her hand and began to pick orc bits from his hair. "To be honest, I am not sure what happened," he admitted. "An immense power came from you, and you forced the orcs back from us." He grinned at her. "Well done, Bronwë. I knew you would be able to access your skills when the time came."

"Yeah? You could have let me know," she retorted, and picked up a hank of his hair, helping to wring orc from it. "Because I had no idea what I was doing, out there."

"I felt it better that you learn on your own," Glorfindel said, looking down at her. "This power is far greater than we realized at first, I think. Perhaps greater than Gandalf expected." 

"Why do you say that? What did he mean by glowing?" Faith combed her fingers through the lock of hair, then took up another. 

"You began to glow with a fierce yellow light, and the wind… did you not feel the wind?" At her nod, he continued. "The light coursed over you like a living flame." He paused. "You did not look of this world, or even of the next. If I did not trust your fëa, Bronwë, I would have been much afraid of you as well. 'Tis no mystery that the orcs would flee from such a sight."

His words set off a funny, tight feeling in her chest. "You trust me?" she asked, dismayed to find it sounded more like a squeak than a breathy whisper. 

Glorfindel tilted his head to one side, studying her face a moment, before turning his attention to the last ungunked lock of his hair. "I do," he confirmed. "Is this a problem?"

"No," Faith muttered, her mind racing. He trusted her? Part of her felt like laughing at him—no sane person trusted her. She'd just let him down, like everyone else—_no_. She firmly squashed that avenue of thought. That was the old Faith; this was the new one, complete with super powers and a pretty damned cool boomstick. She smiled weakly to cover up how affected she was by his words. "There," she said, and dropped the hank of hair she'd been cleaning. "Why don't you put it all into one big braid, instead of just the three smaller ones?"

"That is not the elvish way," he replied simply. "Some things just are." He seemed to be telling her something without telling her something. "Not everything needs to be rebelled against, simply for the sake of rebellion. If everyone rebelled, 'twould be chaos." Ah, there it was. Faith frowned crossly. 

"Yeah, well, some of us get bored without a little chaos," she shot back.

Glorfindel took up a bit of her hair, and tugged it lightly. "There are other things one can do to stave off boredom without creating chaos," he murmured, and flashed a brief smile at her before ambling back toward where the Hobbits had started a cook fire, leaving her blinking after him.

Ered Luin = Blue Mountains

Emyn Uial = Hills of Evendim


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Much thanks for your patience, I'm sorry it took so long but I've had a scorching case of writer's block. Dedicated to houses, who's been insanely busy and still had time to beta this.

Blue on Black, Chapter 11

By CinnamonGrrl

Their group had progressed north, sometimes stopping at Dúnedain villages to get more supplies, or spending a day so they could all catch up on much-needed, uninterrupted sleep. Faith continued to practice her manipulation of energy as a weapon, and with Glorfindel's assistance was soon able to erect not only a barrier of sorts but also to shift things around. She started small (Pippin) and soon worked her way up through the middling sizes (Gimli, Spike) until she was able to levitate Asfaloth a full yard off the ground, much to the horse's patiently restrained displeasure. As the days progressed, Buffy was not nearly so hostile as she had been at first, even relaxing enough to roll her eyes alongside Faith at some of the antics of their male companions. All in all, if it weren't for the nightmares, Faith might almost have been sort of… content. 

The nightmares had come on suddenly, without any warning at all. One day, she'd slept in one long uninterrupted stretch, and the next day she awoke, drenched in sweat despite the ever-lowering temperatures, and screaming Angel's name.

Sometimes the nightmares featured scenes of Faith's childhood, those bleak years of poverty and deprivation that had taught her more about using her body as a commodity than anyone guessed. More often, they were of the last years of her life as a Slayer, and mistakes she'd made. The tense few minutes when she'd killed the assistant mayor, and arguing with Buffy over what to do afterward, or the first time even her Slayer strength had been overcome by sheer numbers in prison and she'd been raped by another inmate. 

Sometimes the memory of steel sliding deep into her belly when Buffy had stabbed her got confused with the memory of how roughly the broom handle had been worked into her. The wide horror of Buffy's eyes would become overlaid with the avid lust of Conchita, her cellmate with a penchant for foreign objects and unwilling partners. Conchita had swiftly learned that if she wanted a piece of Faith, she had to arrange for plenty of backup. She wasn't often successful, but when she was...

And then finally, blissfully, the rush of air as she fell, fell, fell for so long. Sometimes, in the nightmares, she never landed on that truck after Buffy stabbed her—just kept falling for eternity.

But even eternity could come to a conclusion, it would seem. No matter what form the nightmares took, Angel was there in the end. He snatched her from the abyss and gave her something to cling to while her feet scrabbled for purchase on the ground. The sight of him, eyes so shadowed with sorrow and a loneliness that nothing could ever erase, filled Faith with such a storm of fear and anger that she felt sick from the force of it, felt her insides writhe as if battling for dominance with her love for him. In those too-short years they'd had together after he'd freed her from prison, she'd feared Angel as much as she'd adored him, feared that he would leave her even as she'd known he'd never need her for anything more than a substitute for Buffy. 

And then the night had come when he'd fulfilled her deepest terrors, and died. Not just died, but specifically **left her**. His eyes had pled with her for understanding, and she **had** understood. She knew the hollow feeling of being without a part of yourself, after all—the loss of her sister-Slayer had been an open wound in her soul, too. But Faith also knew she'd never forgive Angel for leaving her, for taking the easy way out, for destroying himself when she needed him so desperately. 

Waking from these nightmares, more often than not flanked by a Hobbit or two, it didn't surprise her at all when she realized she was sobbing his name. Sometimes it was a sort of variation—"Angel, you bastard" or "Angel, don't go, don't leave" but always, always his name. He had been everything to her—mentor, saviour, father, confessor, lover. In those bright hours of the day when he kept himself inside, away from the rays of the sun, and she held him and stroked his hair as he wept for his love lost, he had been her son. In the bright hours of the day that Faith and her companions slept, hoping to avoid the dangers of orcs, wargs, and whatever Uruk-hai might remain in Middle-earth, Faith's nightmares assailed her.

They also assailed the elves that accompanied her, Legolas to a far lesser extent than Glorfindel, but still the scenes that played in his head were enough to give him great pause in his condemnation of Faith. He briefly considered telling Buffy about Angel's ultimate fate, but decided that his wife did not truly need the burden of knowing her first love had basically killed himself over her—she was upset enough to even hear Faith call Angel's name with such sorrow. And so he said nothing, only watched silently as Merry gently shook Faith awake yet again. 

"She begins to suffer from lack of sleep," Glorfindel murmured from a few paces away, observing the darkening circles that bloomed under her eyes and the shaky smile she offered to the Hobbit in exchange for his apology at rousing her. "Something must be done."

And so, the next time Faith succumbed to her exhaustion, Glorfindel lay himself at her side and waited for the first small whimpers, the first agitated movements that indicated she dreamt. Then he drew her into his embrace and settled his forehead against hers, willing her to absorb his strength, and let his mind flow in smooth waves until the first, faint impressions of her emotions flickered in his head.

Resignation, sadness… it seemed Bronwë walked down a corridor, grey and almost painfully bright from glaring light-sources overhead, toward a door made of bars. On the other side was an empty room, and in it was a man. "Angel," Bronwë said, her voice catching on the second syllable. "What are you doing here?" The door clanged shut behind her, the sound echoing down the corridor with a finality that made Glorfindel shudder at the implication of being trapped so inexorably.

The man,  Angel, smiled slowly and sweetly, and handed her a bulging paper bag. "I got you out," he said. "Here's some clothes. Get changed."

The wild, unquenchable hope that Glorfindel was beginning to recognize as intrinsic to Bronwë's being burst free, and tears filmed her vision as she glanced from Angel's face to the bag and back again. "You got me out?" At his nod, she took the bag and turned away to rummage through it, the better to hide the tears that began to course down her face, tears of such immeasurable joy that Glorfindel felt like weeping as well. 

Unconcerned with Angel's presence, Bronwë stripped off the ugly orange garment, then the utilitarian underwear. She buckled herself into some sort of lacy black contraption to hold her breasts—Glorfindel noted how it lifted and plumped them up most appealingly and mentally frowned at himself—then slipped on tiny, matching underpants and then snug blue trousers and a brief, stomach-skimming tunic of some clingy knit fabric in a pale lilac colour. She withdrew a hairbrush from the paper sack and brushed her hair until its untidy dullness was dispelled, then withdrew a variety of small tubes, and a mirror. With quick, deft strokes that had not been dulled by time away from their use, she applied the cosmetics until a lovely young woman had replaced the weary, apathetic prisoner of minutes before.

"How did you manage it?" she asked at last, once she turned to present herself to him. 

"There was nothing to it," Angel replied, smiling at her. "We just got the Watcher's Council to pull a few strings."

Bronwë frowned, and the flame of her happiness dimmed a little. "It was easy?" He nodded. "Do you mean," she continued, tone becoming ominous, "that you could have gotten me out of here years ago, and just did **now**?" The fury that had reared its head so swiftly died down just as fast, replaced with the sure knowledge of what his reply would be. "You can't handle things without a Slayer, now that Buffy's gone," she said dully. "If you didn't need a Slayer, you'd have left me here to rot."

"Faith," Angel began, his voice heavy with patience, "That's not true. "We've been trying for a while, the legal way, to get you out. It was just that with this latest demon, the need became more urgent. We began to see that legality had to fall by the wayside."

But a scar was forming on Bronwë's heart, somehow finding a bit of flesh on that organ that was not yet marred by pain and disappointment. "Yeah," she said. "I get how it is." Her eyes were sharp and dark as they met his. "So, if the demon is this bad, let's get going. Can't wait to get my hands on it."

They left the prison in silence, the tread of their feet the only sound in the garishly-lit hallways. "Faith," Angel said at last, "are you sure you're ok?"

She flashed a grin at him, brittle and sharp as a blade. "Sure, Angel," she replied easily as they stepped out into the cool night air, and peered up at the sky, where smog obscured all but the most determinedly twinkling stars. "It's all five-by-five."

That scene dissolved into another. Once more, it was night, and Angel was with Bronwë, but the atmosphere was fraught with danger. They were in an alley, and each struggled with a large, horned demon nearly twice their size. Wan, sallow light washed over the edges of the alley, leaving the rest in murky darkness, and there was the foul smell of general filth as garbage was displaced in the course of their battle. The only sounds were of grunts of pain, heaving breaths, the scrapes of shoe-soles on the cracked pavement of the alley. 

Occasionally the clang of a metal weapon against another would ring off the crumbling brick walls. Glorfindel felt the pulse of energy and power throb through Bronwë's body as keenly as if they were his own. _This was a Slayer in her element,_ he thought wonderingly, truly understanding it for the first time and promising himself a long talk with Dagnir once he awoke. _These women were no mere killers._

She danced, more nimbly than any elf could have dreamt, out of the trajectory of outthrust spikes projecting from the demon's hands and whirled with balletic grace to cleave first one arm, then the other, from its body. With a wet, squelchy thud, the severed limbs fell to the ground, quickly followed by the limp body when she planted the sword squarely in its chest, dragging upward to rend open the cavity for good measure. Exhilaration and triumph swelled within her, and she closed her eyes as her head fell back: she had accomplished something, had proven her worth. It was good.

Then a choked, wet-sounding gasp sounded from the other end of the alley where Angel fought his own battle. Bronwë's eyes flew open as her head whipped around, sword coming instinctually up. The demon's long barb had skewered Angel through the chest, jutting obscenely from his back. Terrified, all Bronwë could do was let out a soft, "No…" before beginning to run full-out down the alley toward him, but he turned then, and looked right at her. There was a wealth of feeling in his gaze as he stared at her, and without taking his eyes from her, brought his hands up to grip the spike. 

"No…" Bronwë repeated, this time louder, a moan that rose in volume until it was a shriek. "No! Angel, no!"  But she was too late. Still holding her gaze, Angel grasped the demon's spike and with a sudden wrench, jerked it into his heart. There was a sudden hush as the molecules of his body ceased to grip onto each other, and he closed his eyes as peace, true peace, found him for the first time in over a century. Then, with a whoosh, he just… melted away. 

Bronwë arrived there just as the last motes of his body floated to earth, sparkling in the sickly light of the distant streetlamp. The demon cringed back, frightened of a Slayer in full wrath at the demise of her comrade, but she barely spared a glance for it as she swung her blade to the side, decapitating it carelessly before dropping to her knees_. Not even a body to hold_, Glorfindel thought, horrified as she took handfuls of the silvery ash that had been Angel. Nothing to mourn, no trace that a man—a creature—had been there at all. One stiff breeze, and it will have been as if he never was.

Bronwë sat there in the murk and filth and dust for hours until another came to her: the vampire Agaradan, known to her and Dagnir as Spike. "Where's Angel?" he asked carefully, already suspecting the answer.

"Here," she replied, her voice dead, and lifted up her hands, showing him the dust cupped in them. "He's here."

Agaradan nodded solemnly, then pulled her to her feet. "C'mon, pet," he said gruffly. "It's not going to get better if you stay here." Blindly, she allowed him to lead her back to the place she had made a home with Angel and the others, numb and disbelieving, but it was as if a part of her mind had remained in that alley, staring down at the smudged remains of Angel on her fingers, rubbing the dust of him into the creases of her skin, feeling the grit of him under her nails. Finally, blessedly, the nightmare faded, leaving only Glorfindel with Bronwë trembling uncontrollably in his embrace. 

He looked up to find the others in a circle around them. Dagnir's face was pinched, as if she wanted desperately to know what Bronwë had dreamt, but dreaded it at the same time. Legolas looked a combination of uneasy and angry, whilst Gimli appeared to be wringing his hands. Merry's expression was one of abject pity on Bronwë's behalf, but Pippin seemed more curious than anything else. And Agaradan just stood behind Dagnir—he was never far—smoking and watching, silent. 

Once Bronwë had settled down, seeming to take comfort from the warmth of the arms around her, Glorfindel began to weave tendrils of power between them. Slowly, with infinite care, he created a bond of golden thread and then began to draw out her pain, her fear, her grief and loneliness and rage until he felt sick from the bleakness of it all. Her body, at first tense and uncompromising, became more and more pliant as he continued, and finally she rested limply against him.

When she was sleeping peacefully once more, Glorfindel thrust her into the surprised arms of Gimli, who was nearest, before lurching to his feet and staggering away. He barely made it across the rise of the next hill before bending forward suddenly and vomiting, the force of it wrenching him onto hands and knees. A cool cloth was at his brow almost immediately, wiping his mouth, and he sat back on his heels to find Legolas watching him, calm concern in those clear blue eyes as the other elf offered a skin of cold water. Drinking thirstily, he nodded his gratitude as he handed it back. 

"She is much troubled…?" Legolas ventured hesitantly, and Glorfindel smirked inwardly at how it took such an extreme reaction on his part for the other elf to begin to see the Maia as something more than merely his wife's nemesis, when even said wife was getting past the bad history she had with Bronwë. In a rare moment of vindictiveness, he projected a sliver of thought at Legolas, the suggestion of all the roiling emotions he had absorbed from Bronwë, and watched with satisfaction as Legolas reeled back, gasping. " 'Tis below you to judge so shallowly," he told the other with a coolness to his tone none of the others had heard before. 

Legolas breathed heavily for a long moment, assimilating the torrent of feelings Glorfindel had just slapped him with, and then nodded. "You have it right," he said at last. "I have been unjust." Then his eyes narrowed, and he twisted to stare up at the sky. Overcast, grey and drear, there was little to see, but Glorfindel's attention, too, was caught. "Something tracks us," Legolas said softly, limbs loosening to a more warlike posture. 

"Yes," Glorfindel agreed, and stood to return to camp. "We ride," he directed the others abruptly, setting the Hobbits to scampering as they packed up. He nodded respectfully at Dagnir, who blinked at him in surprise, then slanted her gaze at her husband, who followed somewhat more slowly, his face thoughtful. 

"There's something up there, but I can't see it," she said at last, then turned to Agaradan. "Spike, do you smell anything?"

The vampire looked up from where he sat beside Bronwë. "Wind's too strong," he replied, quirking a brow when Glorfindel stooped down to lift Bronwë into his arms. "Don't you want to wake her, mate?" he asked mildly. "Be easier to get moving if she weren't dead to the world."

"She needs her sleep, " Glorfindel told him, scarcely noticing her slight weight in his arms as he surveyed their progress. As soon as all was packed, he whistled for Asfaloth and shifted Bronwë to one arm so he could mount. Once astride, he settled her before him and told the horse to canter. "How far to the first Lossoth village?" he asked Dagnir, for this had been her territory during her years as a Ranger. 

"About five leagues," she replied, squinting at the horizon. "We can get there in about two hours, if we hurry."

And hurry they did, Bronwë sleeping all the while. Glorfindel was glad of the warm, if awe-filled, welcome they received when they entered the mud-walled hamlet that was home to this small group of Lossoth. The remainders of the ancient race known as the Forodwaith, they were a hardy people not much given to chatter as words were often hard to hear over howling winds, preferring to communicate with hand-gestures. It took a long period of silence, punctuated only by Buffy's impatient huffing sighs, to make their intent and purpose known to the leader of this village—a Man named Medli-- but eventually she turned to her companions in triumph. 

"They're a little more standoffish than they used to be," Buffy told them at last. "Seem almost afraid, but won't tell me why. They always used to like me." She seemed puzzled by it, but shrugged. "Medli says we can stay as long as we need, and they'll give us a guide for the rest of the journey north." They were shown to accommodation in the odd little huts made of hard-packed snow that the Lossoth lived in, the Hobbits being so kind as to make up a bed for Bronwë. Glorfindel lay her down on it, watching as she simply rolled over and settled in, satisfied that his measures had ensured her ability to gain proper rest. She would surely become ill if she did not learn to better control her raging emotions, though why this mattered so deeply to him, he did not know.

And such emotions they were, too, and she so young. Fatigue stole over him at last, and he lay beside her, drawing the double-layer of their cloaks over him as blanket, and falling into as deep a rest as elves took. But satisfying sleep was not to be his, for it seemed only moments later (though it was indeed several hours) that Agaradan was shaking his shoulder, rousing him. 

"Something's attacking from the sky," he said without preamble, tip of his cigarette glowing in the near-total darkness, "and the Lossoth are losing it."


	12. Chapter 12

Blue on Black, Chapter 12

By CinnamonGrrl

"Wha-- Spike?" Faith mumbled as she came awake, disentangling herself from Glorfindel even as he pulled back, disconcerted at his unwitting proximity to her. "What's happening?" She sat up and stared blindly around in the darkness.

"Something's attacking from the sky," he said without preamble, tip of his cigarette glowing in the near-total darkness, "and the Lossoth are losing it." He stood and said, "Meet you outside," before leaving.

"How long have I been sleeping?" Faith asked as she scrambled to her feet, muttering a quiet "ow" when she bumped her head on the low, sloping wall of snow.

"Not long enough to make amends for your nightmares," was Glorfindel's reply as he stood, careful to duck his head and avoid injury. "You should remain, rest more."

Faith's breath misted before her face as she laughed at that suggestion. "I don't think so," she replied, and groped in the dark for her staff. He placed it in her hand and then grasped her other hand, pulling her after him. Outside was chaotic, with the Lossoth running around waving torches and Legolas and Buffy firing arrows at a shadowy form hovering overhead.

"What the fuck is that?" Faith demanded as they emerged from the igloo-type hut they'd been sleeping in. Buffy allowed herself a moment to be amused at how tightly the two of them had begun to stick to each other, and wondered how long it would take before **they** realized it. Watching them, as Glorfindel had tried to help Faith deal with her nightmares, had been a touching and tender scene; she'd clung to him like a drowning person to a life preserver, and Glorfindel's face had been gravely concerned, far more than one would expect from a mere "bodyguard".

Another loud snarl from the beast above jerked her back to current events; Spike glanced in Faith's direction, sword lightly gripped in his hand as he stood at the ready, and replied around his cigarette, "Looks to me like a dragon."

One of the Hobbits-- it sounded rather like Pippin-- gasped at the idea, but was shushed by the other. "Of course it's not a dragon, Pip," Merry replied, trying to instill as much confidence in his tone as possible. Glorfindel gave him credit for the attempt. "The last dragon was Smaug, and we know his fate."

Buffy hated to disappoint them. "Smaug was the last fire-drake," she said, her voice tight. "This," she continued, loosing another arrow at the dark shape looming over head, "is a cold-drake. There's still buttloads of those hanging around up here."

As if it had been waiting merely for this introduction, the shape dove down toward the village, twisting in mid-air with breathtaking speed to avoid being shot. Long and sinuous, its scales gleamed dully in the wavering torchlight, deflecting all the arrows Legolas and Buffy sent its way. Stubby little legs pawed at the air as mighty wings pounded, hoisting it aloft and out of danger once more, but not before it opened its mouth and expelled a blast of foul-smelling, frigid air.

All the torches went out at once, leaving them in darkness, lit only by dim moonlight. One of the Lossoth began a low, keening wail that the other of his kin joined their voices to until the air around them was filled with the unearthly sound. Faith crept closer to Glorfindel, and his face showed surprise to feel her hand clutch at his arm, just for a moment, as if assuring herself he was still there.

Buffy knew he, like her, had no problem seeing the cold-drake as it wended it way around them, nor would Legolas or Spike. It was flying up again, moving with almost lazy malignance, and she was sure that it prepared to dive at them once more. "Go and protect the halflings and Gimli," Glorfindel told Faith. Buffy smirked, knowing Gimli's reaction would not be favorable. Faith's face brightened at the idea of being useful, and went to corral them all behind her, but as Buffy had predicted, Gimli did not go quietly.

"I'll not cower behind a girl like a frightened peasant!" he roared, pushing easily past her to rejoin those who fought.

"You cannot battle what you cannot see," Legolas told him, then added, "friend Gimli," to soften the blow. "Stay back and guard them," he continued in a whisper. "If we four fall, it shall be for you to keep them alive."

Resigned, and not a bit fooled by this transparent attempt to convince him, Gimli just glowered and stumped back to the Hobbits and Faith, axe at the ready. They all waited for what seemed an eternity while the drake swooped low towards them. The only sounds in the silent darkness of the night was the keening cries of the Lossoth as they huddled in their huts, their wailing punctuated by leathery wingbeats. Then the thin screech of the drake rent the air as it once more opened its maw and blasted them with a gust of frosty wind.

Knowing her husband as well as she did, Buffy was able to silently communicate to Legolas the precise moment he needed to dive out of the trajectory of the drake's breath, but Spike and Glorfindel were caught in the freezing blast, both letting out cries of pain and falling to the ground as cold assaulted their nerve endings and deadened the feeling in their limbs. Before even Buffy's Slayer speed could spur her to her feet, however, the drake was away once more and coming back for a second pass.

Buffy and Legolas wouldn't be able to do much, not with the way the drake's scales were deflecting their arrows. It wouldn't just let them close enough to use steel against it, and it would just keep coming back and freezing them until everyone was dead. As far as she was concerned, this was unacceptable, and that meant she'd have to take drastic measures.

A quick murmur in Legolas' pointed ear, and the plan was set. The next time the drake darted toward them, Buffy ran toward him, stepping into his cupped hands and working her actions with his to achieve maximum height when he threw her skyward. Shrieking with surprise, the drake beat its wings frantically, trying to reverse its motion, but Buffy locked her hand around its front ankle and clung tenaciously as it went further aloft.

Then commenced a harrowing battle between them; slayer and dragon, neither would relent. Buffy hacked, slashed, and stabbed at it, but was unable to get past the iron-hard scales no matter what she did. The drake was used to relying on its freezing breath and, failing that, rows of razor-sharp teeth for its offensive moves and was frankly at a loss for how to deal with the creature it could not reach with its mouth. Buffy tried to wedge the tip of her sword behind the scale closest to her, whooping in triumph when it began to give way. With a mighty shove, she thrust the blade home, feeling it scrape past bone to lodge in something that felt like it could be pretty important.

With a shrill bellow of agony, the drake strained and managed to claw with its free leg at her, raking her from chest to belly with its talons. Buffy heard another cry of pain join the drake's, and as she released its ankle and felt herself fall, realized it came from her. Her world shrank in size and scope; she saw nothing, felt nothing; nothing existed but the screams, a chorus of anguish.

Buffy's rapid descent was stopped with a sudden, jarring wrench that made lights dance behind her closed lids. Sensation returned, howling through her like a hurricane, and abruptly there was silence, as life ebbed away and the strength to continue failed her. She opened her eyes to find that, as always, Legolas was there, his arms around her and his blue gaze loving and concerned.

Behind him, Pippin and Merry were having a difficult time restraining Faith, who was clearly hysterical. Gimli, of course, stood beside Legolas, wringing his hands and muttering what sounded suspiciously like "oh, dear." Glorfindel and Spike had set themselves between the drake and the bloody scene behind them, the vampire glancing almost compulsively back over his shoulder to see her.

"She does not know about your Gift," Legolas explained softly, pushing some bloodied hair away from her face. "She thinks you are dying forever."

Buffy coughed; a bubble of blood foamed at the corner of her lips. "Tell her," she croaked.

"Merry and Pippin have tried, but she will not listen," he replied, cradling her head on his lap.

"Let me," Buffy said, but then a spasm of pain seized her, making her limbs go rigid and her eyes roll back, and when it was over, she was gone. Faith's resultant wail could be heard over the combined voices of the Lossoth, who still chanted and called.

"The drake is coming back," Spike said at last, his voice tired. He turned and, more quickly than most eyes could see, neatly clipped Faith on the chin, knocking her unconscious.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Glorfindel bit out as Faith went limp, the Hobbits lowering her to the ground.

"Now we can fight the sodding monster, instead of babysitting her." Spike hefted his sword onto his shoulder and stared coolly at the elf. "Unless you fancy becoming dragon-chow sometime in the next ten minutes."

Glorfindel stared hard at him a long moment, then nodded sharply, relinquishing Faith to the Hobbits and Gimli, who was heard to murmur "oh, dear" once more as he placed himself before them, a last stalwart defense against the drake, who was at that moment rounding on their little group, its eyes flat and feral as it glared at them.

Buffy's sword still stuck out from behind the scale on its chest, between its front legs, and dark blood poured out around it while it alternated making piteous sounds of pain with shrieks of absolute fury. Legolas gently lay his wife beside Faith on the snowy ground and then, in a flash, slid his long white knives from their scabbards on his back. His face as he turned to confront the beast that had killed Buffy, even temporarily, was a thing of beauty and calm purpose.

Legolas took his place on the other side of Glorfindel. He knew that the sacred power of the Eldar was pulsing visibly from them, two beacons of light in the darkness, and felt a connection with the other elf-lord, a camaraderie of kind. To his surprise, he felt a lesser version of it toward the vampire. Many were Legolas' doubts about The Bloody One, but of his devotion to the Dagnir and her sister, there was not a one. The two elves and Spike stood three abreast and resolutely faced the drake, ready to die shielding those they protected.

But then Legolas felt movement at his side, and found Gimli beside him, as always. The Dwarf flashed him a jaunty grin and adjusted his grip on the axe before settling a grim and focused stare on the drake. Glorfindel made a tiny sound of surprise on his other side, and Legolas looked to see that the Hobbits stood on the far side of Spike, little swords at the ready, their faces determined.

"What?" Pippin asked at their looks of astonishment. "We're not going to just sit back there and let you die for us." He narrowed his eyes purposefully. "If we go down, it will be fighting."

Legolas could not hide his own smile. Glad he was to have his friends with him; had not the Fellowship triumphed because of their strong bonds? This, then, was no different, though he sorely missed the other five at this moment.

Gimli gave a bark of laughter. "Too often we underestimate the Halflings," he said approvingly. "Their hearts are nearly as stout as a Dwarf's." Then he turned a gimlet eye on their foe, and was serious once more.

Now, dragons are not merely beasts. They are intelligent and thinking creatures. Pure evil, of course, but that does not preclude them from evaluating a situation and discerning the wisest course of action. This particular cold-drake, while not the largest, most dangerous or even most canny of her clan, was nonetheless a prudent example of her species. When rather severely wounded and confronted with three immortal beings, a Dwarf, and two Hobbits who'd not eaten in several hours-- all of them armed with not only weaponry but a perilous and almost tangible aura of animosity-- she did what any smart dragon would do.

She figured it simply wasn't worth the effort, and fled.

Not, however, without yanking Buffy's sword from her chest with her teeth, flinging it to the ground at their feet and waving her tail at them in what is, presumably, the dragon-version of "neener neener".

"What I would give for Satet's bow at this moment," Legolas murmured, fingers flexing around the handles of his knives, stance not relaxing one bit until the drake was out of even his long sight.__

One by one, the Lossoth crept from their hiding places and surrounded the group. "We thank you for driving the drake from our village," Medli said once he emerged from his hut, his hands busy with flint and steel to relight the torches.

"Oh, nice," Gimli groused, lowering his axe's head to tap it against the toe of his boot. "You come out once the dragon's gone." He eyed them menacingly. "And how come you're talking all of a sudden?"

"The Dagnir, who knows our hand-speech, is slain," Medli replied softly, his gaze settling on her still form on the ground. "Our usual method is to simply return to our homes and wait until they have gone; rare is it for one to persist when there is no meat on the ground to snatch up."

"Yeah, we noticed." Spike ambled over to Buffy's sword, gleaming with the drake's still-wet blood. Picking it up, he daubed up a bit of the blood with his finger and licked at it, then spit it out ferociously. "Urgh," he said succinctly. "Tastes like battery acid."

Medli nodded. "It is well-known that drake-blood is foul and poisonous." He gazed curiously at Spike. "You really should be dead by now."

Spike grinned, revealing all of his very sharp teeth. "Too late," he quipped, whereupon Medli stepped back in surprise and dismay.

"The Dagnir has brought a monster into our midst," Medli breathed, motioning to his fellow Lossoth to run to safety. "A dark day it is when elves consort with fell beings such as this!" he declared, glaring accusingly at Glorfindel and Legolas. Then he fell to his knees before them, groaning, "It is because our faith in the Great Eye faltered."

"And why has your faith in the Eye faltered?" Glorfindel asked quietly, his gaze intent on Medli and the others who had joined him in kneeling before them.

" 'Twas three years ago that it ceased to speak to us. We were sure it was displeased with us, for at the same time, the cold-drakes came once more. Many were their number, and they were far… hungrier… than ever they had been." Medli lowered his head. "Half of our people have perished in these last dark years. Ai, I knew ruin lay in our paths when the orb went dark!"

Spike huffed out a stream of smoke and flung the butt of his cigarette to the ground, mashing it into the snow with his toe. "What is all that rubbish supposed to mean?" he asked no one in particular.

"It means," Glorfindel said slowly, turning his eyes to meet those of Legolas, in whose own gaze comprehension began to dawn, "that they have a Palantír."

"How is that possible?" Merry wanted to know. "I thought they were both lost in the sea."

"Why did you not go to Lord Elrond for help?" Legolas asked, sheathing his knives and stooping to lift Buffy into his arms.

"That does not matter," Glorfindel interrupted. "How did the stone come to you?"

But Medli would not answer, instead swaying slightly at the thought, and closed his eyes. Another Lossoth stepped forward, a female. "I am Amdir," she said haltingly, her voice rough from disuse, and her mittened hands flying as she gestured in time to her speech. "The orb came to us in the belly of a fish caught by our northern brethren, many years ago. Dormant it was until a century past, when to look into it was to look into the core of hell."

"Much terror it struck into our hearts," Amdir continued, her weathered face chapped by wind and sun, the lines etched deeply around her eyes and mouth. "But it promised that as long as we served it, served the Eye, the drakes would stay away." She looked around at them. "We were loyal, always loyal, but one day the Eye was in the orb no more, and it became a mere stone once again. And the drakes returned."

"Where is the orb now?" asked Glorfindel, but before Amdir could reply, Faith awoke. He knew she awoke, because she leapt to her feet and launched herself directly at Spike, shouting the entire time.

"I'm tired of getting hit! You didn't have to fucking knock me out…" She tried to punch him in the face, but he grabbed her wrist. She then struck out with the other fist, but he grabbed that, too, forcing her to stand still. "I could have helped… oh, God, Spike… Buffy…" She slumped against him, then, much to his chagrin. "Why aren't you more upset? I thought you loved her."

Legolas stiffened at that, and commenced a staring contest with the vampire over Faith's head. Glorfindel felt his head begin to pound. "Truly, there are matters more important than this to concern ourselves with," he gritted out, feeling the fine glow of anger start within him. He was a patient elf, Elbereth knew, but even he had his limits. In the course of a single day, he had withdrawn a sizable amount of black feelings from his charge and been sick for his trouble—an almost unheard-of occurrence in the Eldar—then been nigh frozen to death by a cold-drake. The prospect of having to endure a cock-fight between Legolas and Spike, whilst Faith broke down from mistakenly thinking Buffy was permanently dead, was simply more than he was prepared to accept.

"Legolas," he began with forced normalcy to his tone, "I ask that you continue to speak with the Lossoth. Learn what you can about this orb, and where we might find it. Agaradan, hie yourself off for your meal, then return to stay with the Hobbits, if you please. Gimli, I request you remain with Legolas, should he need your assistance with the Lossoth or with Dagnir."

"And you?" Pippin enquired. "What shall you be doing?"

Glorfindel took Faith from Spike, expecting her to struggle. Instead, she fairly melted against him. He thought he covered his surprise well, by lifting her into his arms and heading in the direction of the hut they had occupied before. "Bronwë and I shall be sleeping."


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** For those of you wondering how canon the cold-drake is: "Now the least mighty [dragons] - yet they were very great beside the Men of those days - are cold as in the nature of snakes and serpents, and of them a many having wings go with the uttermost noise and speed..."_ Turambar and the Foalókë _in _The History of Middle-earth_ vol. II _The Book of Lost Tales II_

Also, according to the Enc. of Arda: "In the year 2589 of the Third Age, Dáin I, King of Durin's Folk, and his second son Frór were slain at the gates of their halls by a Cold-drake… Four hundred years later, at the time of Bilbo Baggins' journey to Erebor, they seem to have left the Grey Mountains." It is reasonable to conjecture that they emigrated westward, to the land of the Lossoth in the far north of Arnor, where Faith and Buffy and the rest encounter them in this tale.

**Blue on Black, Chapter 13  
**by CinnamonGrrl

"Faith," Wesley Wyndham-Pryce had once commented in his more priggish days, and her more evil ones, "is a footnote."

And she had been. A footnote, an anomaly, something barely noteworthy in the longer-term scope of things. Except that now she wasn't. By divine intervention, by hook or crook, Faith had been rescued from an obscure destiny as a footnote and transformed, both figuratively and literally.

It was times like this when a girl really could use a vision or two. Visitation by a guardian angel-type demon, dream featuring the first Slayer—really, Buffy wasn't picky. Any clarification would have been much appreciated.

Buffy returned to life flat on her back in one of those igloo-huts the Lossoth lived in, Legolas nowhere to be seen, and just when she thought things couldn't get weirder than that, she realized that Faith and Glorfindel were there too, both of them sleeping like it was a competition sport. The elf's hearing was so acute, however, that her first movement woke him and he shifted, pushing back that glorious mane of hair that Buffy would have killed for and blinking drowsily for a second before his senses sharpened fully.

"Ah, you are back," he said warmly, and smiled. Even though she had lived with elves for over twenty years, and indeed was married to an elf considered one of the handsomest of them all, the startling beauty of Glorfindel could still amaze her at times. It amazed Faith, too, if the dazed expression on her face was anything to go by on those odd occasions that Buffy caught her staring at her protector.

"Yeah, I'm a bad penny. You just can't get rid of me," she joked, crossing her legs Indian-style and watching with interest the tender way Glorfindel shifted Faith from his arm so he could sit up. Yeah, it wasn't just Faith looking dazed, by the looks of things. Buffy hid a smirk, and instead said, "So, how did things end? I doubt you'd be sleeping peacefully if things went south after I died."

"Went south?" He frowned. "No, the drake flew eastwards, toward Angmar, as I suspected it would."

Buffy, who'd been frowning down at her tunic, stiff with dried blood, looked up at him with a grin. "I forgot, you're not big with the Earth lingo like the other guys." Sighing—the tunic was pretty much ruined—she said, "It just means that everything became bad."

He nodded. "After you died, Bronwë became... upset and had to be calmed down." He frowned then, and gently turned Faith's face to inspect the faint bruise on her jaw before proceeding. "Then the rest of us faced the cold-drake, but its wound was grievous indeed, thanks to you. It flung down your sword and retreated, knowing it could not withstand us, injured as it was."

"So, what then?" Buffy asked, mind racing a bit at the thought of Faith "upset" over her death. To hide her confusion, she busied herself by tucking her chilly hands under her arms to heat them up. Wherever the enchanted clothing touched, she was toasty-warm but whatever skin was bare got cold, fast.

"The Lossoth have revealed they know of one of the stones," Glorfindel said softly. "I asked Legolas to question them, as I was feeling too unwell to do it myself."

She eyes him carefully; it was nearly unheard of for an Elf to be sick. "You ok now?"

He nodded firmly. " 'Twas just a bit of fatigue. Absorbing darkness from another is a wearing task… which is why it is not often done. Now that I am rested, all is well."

"Speaking of which…" Buffy trailed off, a little uncertainly. "Legolas told me that what you saw in Faith's head was… ugly."

He swiveled his head to gaze on the other woman once more. "It was beyond ugly," he murmured. "That she could endure beyond it, and still struggle for life instead of embracing death… she is an unquenchable flame." He turned back to face her after a moment. "You must learn to let your past stay there, Dagnir. The Bronwë that betrayed you was herself betrayed. She has paid for her sins, a hundred times, and a hundred times more." His gold-green gaze locked on hers, utterly convicted. "It is time for your forgiveness."

Buffy swallowed. "I don't know if I can."

He stood, impossibly graceful even in that cramped space. "You can, and you must. For her sake, and for yours."

"For mine? How do you figure that, Aristotle?" She was starting to feel more than a little disgruntled at being philosophized and preached at. Glorfindel might have been in Faith's mind, but he hadn't fought for his life against her like Buffy had, hadn't had her steal his body and…

"One day, you will realize how Bronwë no longer deserves your contempt, and it will pain you deeply. You are a just woman, Dagnir, else the Valar would not place so must of their trust in you." At her snort of skepticism, he smiled. "Ah, the patronage of the Valar does not impress you? Then perhaps this will." He squatted down so he was eye-level with her, his hair spilling over his shoulders to almost brush the floor. "You would not have the love of Legolas, nor the friendship of Elessar and Gimli and the others, were this not so. Elrond and Mithrandir would not respect you so. Your life would not be so valuable that it would be returned to you time and again."

She frowned at him. "I hate when people use that good guy crap to make me do things," she whined. "Just once, I'd like to be able to be a bratty asshole."

He stood again. "Shall we not leave that to Agaradan?" Glorfindel inquired. "He excels at it so." He smiled to hear her laugh, then stood once more. "I will leave you here with Bronwë, for I think now is the best of times for you to mend things with her." Before she could protest, he was gone into the blowing gale outside the coziness of the hut.

"Just great," Buffy mumbled, and leant back on her hands to wait for Faith to wake up. She studied the sleeping girl a few feet from her. There had always been a strange set to Faith's face, a tension in the jaw and mouth that only she could see, as if Faith was endlessly prepared for some sudden attack. Buffy had never watched her sleep before, so perhaps the slack peace on her face was typical, but she didn't think so. There was a newfound tranquility there, a lessening of the tightness around the eyes, a smoothing of the brow. Faith was resting in serenity, and Buffy thought it was due to Glorfindel's sucking of the nasty from her earlier.

Buffy lay down beside her, eyes never wandering far from her face, and just watched quietly until Faith began to stir. Faith's eyes blinked open, huge and dark, and her mouth formed a soft O of surprise at the sight of Buffy beside her, and obviously alive. "You're…"

"Not dead. Yeah." She waited until Faith had pushed herself to a sitting position before continuing, leaning casually on her elbow. "I hear you were a little wigged when I died," she said, and peered at Faith, trying to gauge her reaction. Faith's eyes seemed locked on her with an intensity that was slightly alarming, so she kept going. "I'm sorry no one told you about my little Gift before then, but there I guess there was no reason—I sometimes go years without dying. No need to get worked up for nothing, huh?"

She laughed a little uneasily—Faith was still staring fixedly at her. "So, I hear the drake was run off by the sight of our manly men facing them down, and the village is safe and no one died and you're not really listening to me at all, are you?" Buffy frowned in consternation, but then blinked in surprise to find she was glowing.

Well, her clothes were, anyway.

Her blood-stained tunic and trousers grew more and more bright until all Buffy could see was deep golden light, and then with a flash, everything faded to normal. She gaped to see that the gruesome bloodstains on the fabric had disappeared, and her clothing was perfectly clean, as if she'd just pulled it from her pack and put it on.

But it was... Faith sighed. "Well, better than bloody, huh?" she said, swaying a little from the effort she'd made. "Whaddya think about that, huh, B?" She leant back on her hands and grinned. "Faith's Dry Cleaning Service—when you want it clean, and don't mind it yellow."

Buffy stared at her a minute, then stared down at her newly-yellow garments, and then began to laugh. She sobered quickly, thought, and looked thoughtfully at the other woman. "So, Faith, about me dying."

"Yeah, I know all about it now. Glorfindel told me before we went to sleep. I was just surprised, that's all." Faith's smile faded quickly, and she got to her knees to begin tidying up the area, rolling up the bedding and tying it neatly. Buffy recognized this as classic Faith-avoidance, and fell silent. For a while, at least. "What's going on with you and Glorfindel?" she asked abruptly.

Faith's hands stilled. "What?" she replied, glancing nonchalantly over her shoulder, but Buffy wasn't fooled. "Nothing's going on with us. He's my Defender, or something like that. Just a bodyguard."

"Bodyguards don't sleep curled around their bodyguardees," Buffy said, grinning to see Faith's movements become faster, as if she were agitated.

"It's just because he's an elf," Faith muttered. "They're all touchy-feely, and not as rough as non-elfy types."

"Not if you tell them you **like** it rough," Buffy quipped, then began laughing helplessly when Faith whipped around to stare in amazement. Then the other woman's face relaxed from its expression of astonishment, mouth slanting in a mischievous grin.

"Good to know, B," she murmured, then glanced up from under her lashes. "Are we getting along? This sure feels like getting along to me."

"Let's play it by ear," Buffy said dryly. "I just—I've been thinking about it for a while, and… I don't know what you've been through, but Legolas and Glorfindel tells me it was pretty bad. Like, really bad. Bad enough to make up for all the stuff you did when you went evil with the Mayor." She dropped her eyes to her hands, fiddling with the fabric of her trousers. "So I was thinking, maybe I should ease up on the hostility."

Faith stared at her a long moment, her gaze inscrutable, before standing. "Sounds good," she said at last, stooping to pick up the bundle of bedding. "Just don't be too nice. I don't think I could stand the full force of your Buffy-charm."

Buffy rolled her eyes, and stood. "Yeah. You're so fragile." She pushed open the hut door, and swirling snow hit her right in the face. "Ugh." They trudged over to the main lodge, a large, beehive-shaped structure, and sighed happily when they entered to a blast of heat from the massive fire in the centre of the floor. Legolas stood at the far end of the lodge, speaking earnestly to a petite woman whose brown face looked like it bore a wrinkle for each year of her long life. Merry and Glorfindel seemed engrossed in their own conversation, whilst Pippin, Gimli and Spike played some sort of dice game on one of the battered tables ranged around the room.

As the women entered, all heads turned in their direction. Buffy beamed a smile at all assembled and went quickly to Legolas' side, tucking herself against his side in a familiar move, but Faith felt awkward and was just about to launch into cocky-swaggering-mode for lack of any other way to handle it when Pippin's voice elevated itself over the general din of the room.

"Whyever is Bronwë standing there, looking as if she hasn't a friend in the world?" he demanded genially, hopping down from the bench on which he sat and ambling over to her. Grabbing her hand, he dragged her back toward the table he shared with Gimli and Spike. "Come, Agaradan was just beating the trousers off us," he continued, reseating himself and taking up his mug of ale.

Faith blinked and allowed herself to be ensconced beside the Hobbit, facing Spike and Gimli. Pippin tried to explain the rules of the game to her, but her mind was whirling too much from everything. First, there was Buffy's overture of a cease-fire in their hostilities—Faith was more than a little startled by it, but a wild sense of amazement bloomed in her chest even as she tried to reason with herself that it wasn't anything significant, just Buffy trying to make their working together toward a common goal less tense. Even so, joking with Buffy had felt… good. Better than good. It had felt **right**, like it was the way things were supposed to be, and now things were back to normal.

Second was the immense feeling of relief that she wasn't left standing at the doorway alone, with everyone staring at her, and no group to join. When she'd been a kid, Faith had watched Cheers on TV and been almost eaten with jealousy when Norm was welcomed so happily and vocally to the bar each evening. Norm had been wanted; everyone was pleased he was there and wanted him to sit with them. Norm **belonged.** Faith hadn't ever belonged to anything or anyone before. Granted, being dragged to join a Hobbit, a Dwarf, and a vampire rated fairly high on Faith's bizarre-o-meter, but it was good to be welcomed into a close-knit group of warriors. She felt a smile steal onto her face, cautiously at first, growing in brightness until she was positively beaming.

And last… last was the notion that a rather significant portion of the despair that had lain heavy on her heart for so long had dissipated, leaving her feeling almost as untroubled as she had been with Estë in the gardens of Lórien in Valinor. Back then, she'd had only the merest notion of embodiment, and no restrictions on it. Able to run and leap and even fly if she'd wanted, with no thought for tomorrow, living only in the **now**, she'd reveled in knowing there were no demands on her.

Then she'd been returned to the hard and harsh world of life. Her fëa had been stuffed down into a body once more, and she'd had a heap of responsibility dumped on her shoulders. They had started to feel increasingly burdened as the extent of her newfound duty had been revealed, and the fact that she'd have to deal with Buffy and her hot-but-cranky husband. Then the nightmares started, and Faith had felt herself slip into the numb apathy of depression once more.

And Buffy had died. Faith didn't think she could be so deeply affected by death, not anymore, and not Buffy's in particular, but she realized how very wrong she was when the other woman had gone limp in Legolas' arms. No matter that they weren't actually related, no matter that Buffy had rejected her in the most basic and clear way possible when she'd sacrificed Faith to save Angel, no matter that Faith wasn't a Slayer any longer… Buffy was the closest thing Faith had ever had to a family, and losing her had made Faith feel like her heart was being ripped out.

It had taken Glorfindel the better part of an hour to convince Faith that Buffy was, indeed, going to return to them. An hour, and all the persuasiveness an ancient elf-lord could muster. Fortunately, that turned out to be quite a bit, and so by the time Faith had fallen into an uneasy and much-needed slumber, she'd felt much better.

Waking up to find Buffy not only alive, but sort of friendly and apologetic… Faith wasn't good at handling great upsurges of emotion. They tended to embarrass her, and she usually dealt with them with either acts of violence or seduction. As neither were appropriate in this case, she'd felt all at sea and channeled the gratitude and affection that swamped her for Buffy in removing the bloodstains from the Slayer's clothing. It was the only way she could think of to deal with it all.

"What is that smile for?" inquired a deep voice in her ear, and Faith turned to find Glorfindel had seated himself beside her, and was himself smiling down at her. "It is good to see you happy; what has caused such a thing?"

Faith felt another swell of unfamiliar emotion, and found herself giving his arm a quick hug as she grinned up at him. "I feel… light," she told him. "Like all the blackness is gone. Does that make any sense at all?"

Glorfindel's smile faded slowly. "It does," he replied seriously. "Quite a bit of sense." He studied her a moment. "All is well with Dagnir, then? I see she wears yellow, of a sudden; have you had aught to do with it?"

Faith grinned some more. "Yeah, guess I'm not going to be doing any anonymous magic for a while yet, huh?" It was the first time she'd been able to mention the whole "Yellow" thing without the use of profanity. She was proud of herself. But her smile began to droop some when she saw how intently Glorfindel was watching her. "What's wrong?" she asked, feeling her euphoria dim.

The corners of his mouth curled a little. "Are you not tired, yet?" he asked instead of answering her. "It has been a hard day for you."

"I just woke up!" Faith protested even as his words reminded her that she had gotten about one day's worth of sleep in the past week, and her body was still screaming for rest. She slumped a little in defeat, allowing herself the comfort of leaning her body against his a little for support. "Yeah," she admitted a moment later, "I'm tired."

"Go back to the hut, then, and rest," Glorfindel told her. "I will join you soon."

"Join me?" Now that the burden of despair was gone, Faith was free to think about other things she'd pushed to the rear of her consciousness. One of those things, her libido, shoved its way to the forefront of her mind and dangled before her mind's eye an image of Glorfindel joining her in the biblical sense. Faith stared up at him, and felt her head swim at the sudden rush of heat and blood to various places of her body that hadn't experienced either of those things in quite a while. "You'll… join me? In the hut?"

Glorfindel's eyes sharpened, the green ebbing from them until they were pure liquid gold. "Perhaps not," he murmured after a moment. "Perhaps it is best if you share with another female… I am sure Amdir will welcome you to her home."

Faith felt unaccountably rejected. "Don't bother her with it," she said shortly, and stood. "I'll stay in the hut by myself, and you can shack up with Spike or the Hobbits." Ignoring those others' enquiring glances, she stalked from the lodge and fought her way through the worsening storm toward the hut she'd left scarcely a half-hour before.

She hadn't gotten halfway before she had lost her way in the storm, snow swirling thickly around her, and tears of frustration pricked her eyes. Then a hand grasped her arm, and she knew—somehow—that it was Glorfindel. He pulled her after him to another, smaller lodge. Inside was empty, but just as bright and warm as the first. "What troubles you?" he demanded, showing a touch of anger for the first time.

"Not a thing," Faith replied, her voice hard. She was tired, and confused, and turned on, and she especially didn't like being manhandled—elfhandled—whatever. She pulled her arm back. Silence fell, and stretched out like a slender thread between them. Her anger ebbed, replaced by weariness and a sort of pained longing for something, she wasn't sure what. "I know what you did before, with the nightmares," she said, her voice low and husky. "I felt you there, inside me. Inside my head," she clarified quickly. "Why?"

"You were suffering," he said slowly. "I could not allow it to continue."

Her eyes flew up again, this time snapping with her usual quick temper. "Of course not," she retorted. "If I'm not in peak shape, the whole mission goes tits-up. And you're all about the mission," she finished, a touch bitterly.

Glorfindel looked surprised. "No," he said, and even in her state of ire, Faith could tell he spoke truthfully. "I had not thought of our quest when I did that." He frowned, as if puzzling over his own actions. "My only concern was to ease your distress."

"Why?" Faith asked again. For some reason, she really, really needed to know. When he did not reply right away, she filled the silence by saying, "Knowing you were there made it all less awful. Like, I knew it was in the past. That it wasn't real. That it wasn't happening again."

He smiled faintly. "I am glad."

"I am, too." Faith plucked at a stray thread on the hated yellow trousers. "But you still haven't answered my question."

"Which question was that?"

He seemed so utterly foreign to her as he stood across from her, tall and Elven and glowing faintly in a way the torchlight could never match. Faith was used to understanding men; most of them were as easy to figure out as the proverbial open book. But Glorfindel… he was a complete mystery. And Faith had never been a big fan of mysteries. "If you weren't worried about the future of our quest, then what was it?"

It was a few moments before he replied; to Faith, it seemed like forever. "I cannot sit idly by and watch someone in pain," he replied at last. His voice was tight, and she figured he was angry again.

Her heart sank. "Is that all it is?" she demanded. "Just charity?"

"What else do you want it to be?" Glorfindel shot back. His eyes were snapping with annoyance, his golden hair seeming to almost crackle with it.

He was the hottest thing Faith had ever seen, and she wondered how she hadn't noticed before. "More," Faith whispered thickly, and knew it to be true. "I want it to be more."


End file.
